


the space between

by wardeness



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Angst, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mechanic Daryl, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bartender jesus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:03:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 97,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7918009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardeness/pseuds/wardeness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten minutes ago, Paul couldn’t wait for the night to end. Now his mind was at full attention, strangely intrigued by the gruff man before him.</p><p>Modern AU. Slow Burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

                                                                            

* * *

 

“I’ll have a Bud Light.”

Paul blinked down at a smudge of water on the dark wooden table below him. In the dimly-lit bar the liquid was hard to notice, but the neon _Michelob_ sign fastened to the wall overhead illuminated its shine in muted reds and blues. He noticed flecks of green crumbs floating on top from what looked suspiciously like weed—Kal clearly forgot to wipe down this hightop too. _Lovely._

“You hear me, hippy? _Bud Light_.”

Shaking himself out of his daze, Paul plastered on a tired smile and met the customer’s eyes. He was middle-aged, greying hair receding from his lined forehead. A quick glance down the man’s body revealed a sweat-stained wife-beater and a heavy gut protruding over a belt that was beyond a few sizes too small. Cringeworthy, really, but what else could he expect from The Hilltop’s Wednesday night clientele.

“Of course, coming right up,” Paul returned, false smile never fading.

The customer harrumphed and nodded back down to his phone, which he lazily prodded with oversized fingers.

Paul turned on his feet and walked over to the bar, stifling a yawn as he slid behind to grab a beer from the fridge. He’d been on shift for nearly ten hours now. It was nearing last call, thankfully. Only thirty more minutes.

Gregory was pouring drinks for a few customers sitting near the end of the bar. Two men settled in the middle quickly noticed Paul’s appearance and lit up, tipsy grins growing wide.

“Jesus, my man!” the taller of the two called over the hum of chatter and music.

Paul walked down the bar, an easy smile forming on his own lips as he recognized the pair. He didn’t miss the brief look of annoyance from Gregory as he squeezed behind him. “Hey Brock, Nick—haven’t seen you two around lately.”

“That’s because this one’s got himself a girlfriend,” Nick, the shorter friend, answered.  

Paul raised his brows, interest genuinely piqued. For a while he suspected the two men had been fucking each other. Perhaps that had just been his own bias coloring their relationship.

“Oh?” he asked, amused smirk apparent as he rested his elbows on the bar, “And who’s the lucky lady?”

Brock shook his head with a smile. “Her name’s Angela.”

“ _Angela_ ,” Nick teased, knocking his shoulder into his friend’s. Although the man’s alcohol-induced grin seemed giddy, Paul could sense the sadness behind his eyes. Maybe his suspicions hadn’t been completely wrong.

“Well,” Paul said as he straightened, “How about a round on the house? To celebrate?” _Or drown in self-pity_ , he thought with a sympathetic glance at Nick.

His mind suddenly flashed to memories of Alex in his bedroom, angry texts, a broken glass of bourbon. As his throat tightened, he felt the overwhelming tiredness he’d been attempting to stave off for the past two hours flood over his body. _Thirty more minutes._

Brock grinned and raised his half-empty glass of dark beer. “See, this is why you’re the best bartender. Free fuckin’ booze.”

Paul raised his brows. “And here I thought you guys loved me because I’m such a great conversationalist. I’m heartbroken.”

Brock laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard in years. Oh, the power of Guinness.

“So why are you out there taking orders?” Nick asked after a beat, nodding back at the nearly-empty tabled area of the bar.

Jesus glanced over at Gregory, who was filling a final glass with beer from the tap, and shrugged. “We’re low staff tonight, just helping out as much as I can.”

It wasn’t a lie, technically. Two of the usual waitstaff called in sick, and Kal couldn’t even wipe off a damn table, let alone remember an order. Jesus was a bartender exclusively, but God knows Gregory would never lower himself to carrying around trays of alcohol from table to table. Instead, his manager had settled himself behind the bar and asked Jesus to wait tables tonight. The man had explained that everyone loved him, found him funny and amiable, that he attracted the younger “hipster” crowd and what not. _That’s why everyone started calling you Jesus years ago_ , Gregory had reminded him for the 900th time, _Well mostly because of the hair and beard, but you’re so damn likable_. Despite his manager’s attempts at flattery, Paul knew he’d say anything to avoid enduring any actual manual labor. As much as he’d come to care about the regulars he’d met while working at The Hilltop, Paul had never quite warmed to Gregory.

“See, you do too much around here,” Nick said. “You’re too nice.”

Paul smirked, raising his arms to tighten the bun that held half his hair up. “I’m flattered, but not really.”

“Yea, ‘member?” Brock cut in sloppily, obviously on the drunker side of tipsy. He looked at Paul. “Don’t you like karate fight or something? He could prob’ly kick your ass, Nicky.”

Shaking his head in amusement, Paul grinned. “Yes, I’m into martial arts. I promise not to kick anyone’s ass though—at least not tonight.”

Brock gave another drunken laugh. Nick chuckled, but he looked vaguely uncomfortable. Jesus guessed it was Brock’s use of _Nicky_.

Paul then remembered the Bud Light he’d brought over for wife-beater guy. Quickly, he grabbed the nearest bottle opener and snapped off the cap with a _pop_.

“Sorry guys, I have to get this to a customer. I’ll be back with your drinks,” he smiled as he hurried out of the bar into the tabled area.

“Took you long enough, hippy,” the man spat when Paul arrived.

The bartender took a deep breath and responded calmly, “Would you like to keep a tab open? Last call is in twenty minutes, just so you know.”

Wife-beater guy gave an annoyed glance and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a five and slid it forcefully onto the table. _Well, that answers that._

Smiling politely, Paul nodded at the man and took the bill. 

After he put the cash in the register, he walked toward the tap to pour two drinks for Nick and Brock. That’s when he heard the heated discussion coming from the other end of the bar.

Another pair of customers were giving hostile looks to Gregory, who was trying his best to maintain his well-mannered, calm facade. Paul moved closer.

A woman with red curls knit her brows. “Last week two of them beers were only ten, now it’s twenty?”

The bartender felt himself cringe internally. Gregory had suggested raising the prices on certain draft beers a few days back. He had argued against it, knowing the locals wouldn’t appreciate a price hike, but he’d ultimately let it go. He hadn’t realized Gregory would raise it to  _double_ the price.

Paul resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Gregory’s lust for profit often overshadowed his own logic.

“Prices changed two days ago, it’s on the menu,” Gregory explained.

The woman's boyfriend stood, scraping his stool along the tiled floor. “We come here all the time. We don’t even use the menu—hell, I didn’t even know it existed.”

“Okay,” Paul cut in, ready to diffuse the tension before things escalated further, “Gregory, they didn’t know. Maybe just charge them the old price tonight and show them the menu so they can plan for next time?”

Gregory stayed calm, but the glare he sent Paul pierced like daggers. He breathed in deeply. “Fine,” he said with a fake smile. “No problem, next time check the menu please.”

The red-head rolled her eyes and stood as well. “Come on babe, let’s go,” she muttered to her date before grabbing her purse.

Her boyfriend gave an appreciative glance at Paul and placed a ten-dollar bill on the bar top.

Once the pair exited the front door, Gregory turned to him. “Back room, now.”

Paul sighed and dropped his hands into the pockets of his hoodie before following the taller man into the stock area.

“Listen,” Paul started after Gregory clicked the door shut. “They seemed like good people—”

“I could give a shit what they seemed like,” Gregory interrupted, angry vein pulsing in his neck as he strained to keep quiet, “You’re not to do that again.”

Paul breathed in through his nose, willing himself to keep calm. This wasn't the first time he and Gregory argued over the best way to manage the place. Paul was only the bartender, but he’d been there from the beginning and worked twice as much as Gregory did. He felt responsible for the place, responsible for the staff, the customers, hell, even the damn alcohol. He genuinely gave a shit. Maybe that was his problem.

“Paying double the price for a draft beer isn’t exactly reasonable,” Paul continued.

“You don’t make these decisions. I do. You just go on smiling and charming and keeping them happy, got it?” Gregory answered thickly, pointing toward the door.

Paul narrowed his eyes. “Well, I’m not exactly sure how I’m supposed to _keep them happy_ if we keep raising the prices like that. It doesn’t make any sense—”

“Damnit, Jesus! I own this place. Not you,” Gregory seethed. He stepped closer into Paul’s space, pushing his index finger onto his sternum. “I’m sick of you always questioning my judgement.”

“You’re lucky you even have this job,” he added, voice low. “Now go fucking do it.”

The last addition hit Paul hard. He wasn’t wrong.

Paul swallowed and looked down at the finger pressing into his chest. He thought about how easy it would be to grab his hand, twist it, and punch his jaw in one move. When he met Gregory’s eyes again, however, he just nodded. “Sure.”

His manager pulled back, seemingly satisfied. The man turned around, pulled the door open, and began walking out of the stock room.

“Oh, I forgot,” Gregory started, turning to face Paul again. “You’re closing tonight.”

Paul straightened. Kal was supposed to close with Gregory tonight.

“I’m heading out and Kal had some _thing_ ,” Gregory said, waving his hand dismissively. “I don’t know. He went home.”

Sighing, Paul rubbed a hand over his face. He’d been looking forward to leaving after last call during his entire shift. He was exhausted. It didn’t matter at this point, though—he couldn’t argue or refuse, not with Gregory’s current demeanor.

“Yeah sure, no problem,” Paul acquiesced.

Gregory patted the door jam. “Great. Well, have a good night.”

Paul responded with a tight-lipped smile.

Once Gregory vacated the space, Paul rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. _So much for twenty more minutes._

 

* * *

 

Later, Paul stood behind the bar, wiping newly-washed glasses with a dry towel. Most customers had already exited for the night, the nearly-empty bar now quiet and calm.

Even Nick and Brock decided to return home after last call: once they finished their free round, Nick had steadied a stumbling, smiley Brock as they walked out the door to meet their Uber. The shorter man had looked both pleasantly flustered and internally pained having his friend pressed so tightly beside him, and Paul decided there was definitely some unrequited feelings at play—even if Nick didn't know it himself.

Their absence acted as a cue for the others to head out for the night. Even wife-beater guy who’d been purposely nursing his Bud Light for an hour just to give Paul the stink-eye plopped off his stool and left. Now, with fifteen minutes until close at 2:30 AM, the only ones left in the bar were a group of college girls who entered right before last call and kept glancing at Paul and giggling.

It was hardly the first time girls tried hitting on him while bartending. He hadn’t fucked a woman in his life and would keep it that way, but a little flirting couldn’t hurt if tips were involved.

“Hey, ladies,” Paul said as he slid down the bar to where they were seated. “We close in about ten minutes—no rush, just letting you know.”

“Oh, okay,” the brunette closest to him answered, cheeks pink. Paul gave his most charming smile in response.

“ _Lauren_ , oh my god,” her blonde friend whispered giddily.

Paul quirked a brow in amusement and turned around, returning to his rack of drying glasses. The group of girls continued to chat enthusiastically behind him, no doubt attempting to receive his attentions again. Soon their soft giggles turned into tipsy laughter.

Maybe that’s why he never heard the door open.

A minute or so later, Paul was distracted from his cleaning when the unmistakable sound of stools scraping against the floor filled the air. The girls were packing up and exchanging goodbyes, which meant Paul could finish closing and get the hell home. _Finally._

He turned around and grinned as he gave a small wave to the exiting party, earning a few more giggles from the brunette and blonde pair. He shook his head and looked over at the wad of cash they’d left as a tip. As he moved across the galley to collect the money, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye and did a double take, glancing down the bar.

A man was sitting in the last seat near the door, head bent as looked at his phone.

Paul sighed before shoving the money in his hoodie pocket and walking toward the figure.

“Sorry, didn’t see you come in,” Paul began as he neared the man. The customer wore a black long-sleeved shirt under some sort of leather vest. Dark, straggly hair obscured his face as he continued to stare down into the soft light of his cellphone. Either he didn’t hear Paul or was purposefully ignoring him. Probably the latter, knowing his luck.

 _Great, another crazy,_ Paul thought, exasperated. _And just before closing._

Paul placed both his hands on the bar once he reached the customer. “We’re closed, actually, so—”

The mystery man looked up at him then, finally acknowledging his presence. Whatever Paul was going to say fumbled from his mind, throat suddenly going dry.

Greying scruff framed the man’s slight jaw and soft lips, and shaggy dark-brown bangs parted over narrow, blue eyes—one of which sat above a swelling black and blue on his lower socket.

Paul cleared his throat, suddenly aware that he’d been staring. “Well,” he said, “Technically last call was an hour ago, but that looks like it could use a drink.”

The man stared at him, blank face unaltered.

Paul swallowed. He felt uncharacteristically nervous under the man’s gaze. “What’s your poison of choice?” he asked, painting on an easy smile in an attempt to alleviate the awkwardness.

Leather-vest guy kept staring for a few more seconds before adjusting his position and returning to his phone. “Whiskey.”

The man’s voice was gravelly and light and it sent a strange, tingling wave down Paul’s body.

The bartender breathed in deeply, glad the man was now staring back at his phone instead of his face. He wasn’t sure why he felt so affected right now—the customer looked like he hadn’t bathed in a few days and Paul could smell the distinct odor of cigarette smoke wafting from his clothing across the bar. Maybe it was his protective nature kicking in due to the black eye, maybe it was his exhaustion finally catching up with him, or maybe it was the way the man’s broad shoulders made his breath hitch in his throat just a bit. Either way, Paul was curious.

At that moment, the man raised his head back to Paul, eyes still narrowed. “You gonna go get it, or ya just gonna stare at me?” he growled.

Paul cleared his throat again, vaguely sensing heat rising in his cheeks. “On the rocks?”

“Nah,” the man answered gruffly, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a pack of Marlboro’s and fingered one out of the box, placing it in his lips.

“You can’t smoke in here,” Paul attempted, but the man had already snapped open his lighter and lit the cigarette anyway, billows of hazy smoke filling the space between them as he exhaled.

Paul waved the grey smoke from his face. “ _Okay_ then,” he breathed as he raised both brows.

He was too tired to get into an argument with the man, especially one that looked like he wouldn’t hesitate to punch him in the face if he felt so inclined.

“Any whiskey in particular, or…?” Paul asked.

The man sent him another glare as he inhaled his cigarette. Paul pursed his lips. “Never mind,” he muttered before turning around and grabbing an open bottle of Jack Daniel's and a clean glass.

He placed the cup on the bar and unscrewed the bottle cap. Paul watched the dark-haired man as he began texting, cigarette still balanced between his lips. He was using an old Motorola flip phone—Paul hadn’t even seen one of those in years. Well, maybe he’d seen an elderly woman using a similar one at the grocery once, but this guy wasn't old. Couldn’t be any older than his early forties, he guessed.

Ten minutes ago, Paul couldn’t wait for the night to end. Anyone who would have walked in he’d have politely turned away, refused service if needed, called them a cab—anything to get the place finally locked up and him into his shitty car so he could drive home. He wasn’t sure why, but now his mind was at full attention, strangely intrigued by the gruff man before him.

Being a naturally chatty person, Paul usually found himself in light conversations throughout the night with The Hilltop’s customers. Aside from the earlier wife-beater types, most enjoyed his company. This guy didn’t seem to be interested in anything of the sort, but Paul appreciated a good challenge.

As he poured the dark amber liquid into the glass, he sighed. “Rough night?”

The man raised his eyes and stared at him for what felt like the thousandth time. He said nothing, clearly unamused.

“Me too,” Paul continued. “Well, I didn’t get punched in the face, so I have that on you,” he added, quirking up his lips.

Paul slid the glass of whiskey across the bar toward the man. Leather Vest narrowed his eyes suspiciously but picked up the cup and took a gulp.

“Almost punched my boss in the face today, though,” Paul admitted with a nonchalant shrug as he began screwing the cap back onto the bottle. “Could have, but didn’t.”

The man didn’t say a word, but Paul felt his unmoving stare burning into him.

“He’s a complete tool,” Paul said with a laugh. “But unfortunately I actually like my job, somehow, so.”

Paul slid the bottle to the side and looked at the man. He expected anything—a laugh, a half-assed smile, a nod, the finger—but the man just looked as disaffected as before.

“Not much of a talker, huh?”

No response.

“That’s okay. Is your eye alright?”

The man lowered his glass. “Ain’t your business,” he finally rasped.

Paul frowned and raised a brow. “Fair point. But do you uh, need any medical attention? I’m already breaking the rules by giving you free alcohol past closing time—if you bleed out and die on my floor I’ll be in big trouble with my previously referenced asshole boss.”

Leather-vest guy narrowed his eyes again, annoyed glare intensifying. “Never said I needed this for free.”

“Well, I’m giving it to you for free,” Paul answered, unable to contain his suggestive smirk.

Apparently the dark-haired man was not impressed, because he scowled at the bartender before standing up. Now that the customer wasn’t sitting on the stool, Paul realized the man was a good bit taller than him.

Leather Vest grabbed the glass and finished it off with an unmannered gulp while reaching into his pocket. He pulled out several bills and dropped them on the counter before placing the empty cup on top with a resounding _clank._

Then he was gone.

 

* * *

 

Paul’s keys jangled as he pulled them from his back pocket. He pressed the second button quickly with his thumb, his car beeping and flashing its lights as it unlocked. Once he reached his vehicle, he opened the driver’s seat door and slumped inside. The sedan still smelled like the green curry he'd accidentally spilt in the back seat last week, and his stomach growled to life with both nausea and hunger.

Before placing his keys in the ignition and starting the car, he remembered he hadn’t checked his phone in hours. Not that he was expecting anything.

He slid his iPhone from his hoodie pocket, unlocked it, and squinted into the bright screen. Six unread messages.

The first was a data usage notification from his provider. _Oh joy_ , he thought before opening the next conversation.   

> **Tara 9:41 PM**  
>  How’s work going?
> 
> **Tara 10:16 PM**  
>  Dude there’s a Bachelor marathon on right now. I don’t even watch this show but I’m entranced
> 
> **Tara 10:33 PM**  
>  All these girls are hot help me.
> 
> **Tara 11:55 PM**  
>  Answer me asshole
> 
> **Tara 1:20 AM**  
>  Im so bored

Paul snorted, shaking his head. He quickly sent a text in return. 

> **Jesus 2:44 AM**  
>  Gregory was an ass, what else is new.

His friend still must have been awake, because the three little dots indicating an impending response popped onto his screen. Paul tapped his leg with his fingers as he awaited her text. 

> **Tara 2:45 AM**  
>  ugh :/

Yawning, Paul typed his last reply.

> **Jesus 2:45 AM**  
>  Weird night for sure. I’m leaving now. Talk to you tomorrow?
> 
> **Tara 2:46 AM**  
>  yea buddy

Paul locked his phone and yawned again before sticking his keys into the ignition and turning them. The engine grumbled, but nothing.

"Piece of shit," Paul muttered before turning the keys again.

This time the engine crackled to life, setting the car in a soft rumble. Paul wasn't too concerned—his 2003 Honda Civic was rusty, no doubt, but it was far from shitting the bed completely.

Sighing, he pulled out the tie of his half-bun, letting the rest of his brown strands hang freely. He ran one hand through his hair before putting the vehicle into drive and exiting The Hilltop's small parking lot.

Paul pulled onto the black road ahead and pushed on the radio. He knew there was an easy way to hook up his phone to the auxiliary so he could play some decent music, but he was too lazy and tired to figure it out right now. Instead, he settled on some pop hits station playing late-night EDM. Not his usual cup of tea, but he'd take anything over dark silence.

After several minutes, he heard a strange popping noise ahead of him. Squinting, he flashed on his high beams to make sure he wasn't running over any branches or debris. The road looked clean.

He shrugged and sat back into the seat, unconcerned.

Then another pop.

Two.

Three.

A loud grumble trumpeted from the engine before the entire car went dark and silent, stuttering to a halt.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Paul breathed. He turned the the ignition again. It whirred briefly, but nothing.

Taking a deep breath, Paul remained calm. "Okay, I’ll just call AAA or whoever," he mumbled to himself.

He pulled out his phone and unlocked it. Before he could open the phone app and dial, the screen turned dark and a little white buffering symbol appeared before fading into total darkness. Paul clicked the home button frantically—his battery couldn't have been that low. This was just a false alarm, his phone crashing from being opened too quickly.

His attempts proved fruitless, however, because all that appeared was a red battery symbol telling him to plug his phone into a power source.

Paul dropped his head against the wheel. "Fuck," he cursed under his breath.

He didn't have a charger on him. It was nearing 3AM. This area of town was dead this time of night—all the shops closed long ago and no one was on the roads. He'd driven far enough down that the only thing he could see were trees and woods. He tried pressing his hazards and turning the car light on, but even those wouldn’t work.

If it wasn't the middle of the night and he wasn't exhausted as fuck, he'd attempt at scouting the area and finding the nearest place he could get help. Since that didn't seem like the smartest option in the pitch black night, he pushed open his door instead and walked onto the road.

"This is definitely nothing like an episode of Criminal Minds. I know jiu-jitsu,” Paul murmured as he made his way to the front of the car. Popping open the hood, he was faced with a confusing array of wires and valves. He considered himself a particularly informed person, but mechanics were never his forte.

Faced with the realization that he had no idea how to fix the problem, nor any idea what the actual problem was, Paul shut the hood. He turned around and slumped against it, exhausted.

He was about to consider sleeping in the car and waiting for daylight when he heard the tell-tale noise of a motor behind him. He snapped his head around. Headlights glowed in the distance.

Fuck whoever started calling him Jesus, this guy was the real savior.

It didn't take long for Paul to realize the noise was coming from a motorcycle, which dampened his hopes a bit. A motorcyclist probably didn't have any helpful supplies or the desire to carry his ass to the nearest gas station.

Not that someone in a car would either necessarily, but maybe this person would have a phone they'd let him borrow.

As the motorcycle approached, Paul moved closer into the middle of the road so that he'd be seen. He raised his arm over his eyes to block the bright light and gave an awkward wave, attempting at getting the driver's attention.

The motorcycle either didn't see him or was ignoring him, because it didn't slow down as it neared Paul and his broken down car.

"Fuck," Paul muttered when it seemed like the cyclist would pass him by completely. However, it suddenly came to a halt after it sped by Paul, finally parking a few feet up the road. The cyclist kept the headlights on to illuminate the area.

As the driver pushed off the bike, something struck Paul as familiar. He couldn't see much in the dim light, but he thought he could make out a design of wings on what seemed like a leather vest.

_No, it couldn't be._

The guy pulled off his helmet and dark, straggly hair fell beneath his ears. He placed the helmet on top of the bike seat and turned around, finally waking over to face Paul.

 _Shit_.

Leather-vest guy from earlier stood before him. He said nothing as he stared at Paul, moving his eyes up and down his body with displeasure.

"Hey," Paul started, unsure what the appropriate social custom was for ‘hey, you awkwardly left my bar earlier after I offered you a free drink and now you found me alone and stranded in the middle of the road.’

"You got a death wish or somethin'?" the man snarled.

"No, not particularly," Paul answered nonchalantly.

"The fuck you doin' out here, huh? Coulda run you straight over!"

Paul shrugged. "Oh you know, just enjoying the fresh air."

He soon realized sarcasm was not the best approach because the man invaded his space, furious.

"You best not be fuckin' with me you little shit."

Paul looked up at the taller man's face above him. This close, the smell of cigarettes was unavoidable and he could see beads of sweat dripping from the man's hair-matted forehead.

Paul quirked a brow and lifted both hands as if in surrender. "No, I'm not, I promise." A glance down revealed two angry fists tightened by the man's sides. "Although if you're the one following me, I'd advise you not to try anything."

"You're not a serial killer, are you?" Paul added with raised brows and humor in his eyes.

The man flared his nose and for a moment Paul was convinced he'd give him a black eye to match the one on his own face. However, the biker just turned around and walked gruffly back toward his motorcycle.

"Wait, I was just kidding," Paul called. He needed to use a phone. This might be his only chance.

"My car broke down. My phone died and I have no way to contact anyone. Do you mind if I borrow yours?"

The man stopped and stood in place for what felt like hours, but Paul knew it'd been only a few seconds. The guy rubbed a hand over his face and turned around. He still looked furious.

"What happened?"

Paul blinked. He was expecting something along the lines of ‘fuck you, asshole.’

"I heard these popping noises then it just...died."

The man stared at him for a long moment before walking over to Paul’s car and lifting the hood. He pulled out his cellphone and snapped it open, using it as a light source to look inside. The man ducked down and began touching different pieces.

"Uh," Paul began, walking over to the man currently bent beneath his hood. "Do you know what you're doing in there?"

The man sent an annoyed glare in response before dropping his head back into his work.

"Alright," Paul said. He leaned against the trunk to watch the man, whose shoulders splayed tightly against his leather jacket. Paul was right, there were angel wings on the back.

"So you're a mechanic then?" Paul asked after a few seconds of silence.

The man didn't respond. Paul took it as a yes.

"Well I guess if I was going to get stranded in the middle of a road you're the perfect person to find me. I'm a lucky guy. My guardian mechanic angel."

The biker raised his eyes at Paul through dirty bangs. "Ya ever shut the hell up?"

Paul smirked. "Not usually, no."

The guy muttered something to himself that sounded like ‘fuckin’ asshole.’ _That's more like it._

Dropping his eyes down the biker’s bent form, Paul appraised the man. Something about the way his dark shirt pulled against his shoulders as he turned knobs and valves sent the same wave of shivers down his spine as his voice did earlier.

"My name's Paul by the way, in case you were wondering."

"I wasn't."

"Paul Rovia," he clarified. "But my friends call me Jesus. Your pick."

The guy narrowed his eyes but didn't look at Paul, still consumed by the expanse of engineering before him.

"You have a name?" Paul asked.

"Nah," the man said as he untucked himself from underneath the hood.

“Hm, that must be difficult, living with no name. I’ll have to call you something. Leather Vest? Mechanic Angel? Whiskey Eye has a nice ring to it.”

The man ignored Paul’s chatter as he walked around him toward the side of the car. He pulled open the front door and sat inside, ducking his head to peer over the dashboard. He pressed a few buttons before turning the keys. The ignition rattled once, twice, but nothing.

The biker returned under the hood and focused on two wires in particular.

“What’s that?” Paul asked. As much as this gruff, southern man interested him, he wasn’t completely sure he trusted a total stranger to fiddle around in his car.

Not that there was much more damage he could do at this point.

As usual, the man ignored him. Instead, his face scrunched with concentration as he pulled some piece out of a socket and rewired it into another valve. Paul raised his brows.

“Listen, I appreciate the help—really—but maybe it would just be easier for me to call someone. AAA, the cops, whoever.”

Once again, the biker sent Paul an unamused look. He screwed something together before stepping outside the hood and shutting it.

Paul was about to question him when he brushed passed him again, opening up the driver’s door and taking a seat.

The man twisted the keys. This time, the engine roared to life.

Paul couldn't help but raise his brows in surprise. "Well shit."

Quickly after, the car lights turned back on and the radio along with it, [blaring the same obnoxious EDM music as earlier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HIJ5XvZeb-k). The biker seemed unfazed by the sudden blast, but after a quick glance at Paul he turned down the knob, lowering the volume so the song only pulsed at a low throb.

"Not a fan of Diplo?" Paul joked, trying to ignore the fact that he actually felt embarrassed that this guy thought he was the type of person to blast EDM from his car at 3AM. Well, he had been, but that was different.

"Nah," the biker growled, although Paul suspected he didn't even know who that was. The man then exited the vehicle, leaving the door open as he stood before Paul.

"So what was wrong with it?"

"It's a piece of shit," the man responded as he pulled his cigarettes from his back pocket. He lit one up as Paul stared, tired eyes lingering on the way his lips wrapped around the paper stick.

"Well I could have told you that. You sure you're a mechanic?" he smirked.

The biker pulled the cigarette from his lips, breathing out the light smoke. The nights in Virginia weren't quite cold yet in early September, but there was enough wind to set Paul with a chill. The moving air carried the smoke away from the man's face, drifting off into a foggy haze illuminated by the lights of Paul's car.

"Thing's got maybe ten or eleven more miles. That enough to get your ass back where it came from?" the biker growled.

"Trying to figure out where I live? Not sure if I should be flattered or concerned."

"Don't care where you go," the man muttered as he walked off.

Paul wanted to ask if he could use his phone to call someone just in case. How could he trust the car would actually make it that far? His apartment was probably eight or so miles from this point, which was cutting it pretty close. His exhaustion got the best of him, though, because as the man hopped back onto his bike and pulled on his helmet, Paul just stood there, watching.

The motorcycle grumbled to life and sped off, leaving Paul alone in the night.

 

* * *

 

The journey home was disquieting, but Paul made it back to his apartment complex nonetheless. He parked the jittery car in a space nearby the front door. He'd call someone first thing in the morning to figure it out, but for now all he wanted to do was sleep in his damn bed.

Once inside, he kicked off his vans and switched on the lamp light near the door, setting the one bedroom apartment in a soft, warm glow.

Paul's eyes adjusted to the mess before him—dirty dishes in the sink, books piled in the living room, clothes cast over the couch. Rubbing his face with one hand, he unzipped his hoodie, tossed it on top of his sofa with the rest of the random clothes, and padded into his bedroom, too tired to care.

His tiny bedroom was not spared from the mess, and Paul hopped over several more stacks of books just to reach his beside table. He plugged his phone into his computer and once it buzzed in response Paul pushed back his bed's comforter and slid underneath. He peeled off his t-shirt and flopped backwards onto the pillow, sighing in comfort as the cool sheets cocooned his bare skin.

Usually he needed to read or listen to music to fall asleep—the task wasn't easy for him these days—but he was too exhausted to even consider moving. Instead, he closed his eyes and stared at the back of his lids, letting the silent darkness wash over him.

 

* * *

 

A sudden, violent buzzing woke Paul from his slumber. He sprung into a sitting position and instantly squinted in reaction to the sun blaring through his open window. Eyes half closed, he reached toward the beside table and fumbled to grab his phone.

"Hello?" he mumbled, answering the call.

"Did you just wake up?" Tara's voice asked from the other end. Her words sounded muffled, as if she were eating something.

Paul yawned and rubbed the crust from his eyes. "Uh, yeah. Why?"

Tara snorted. Paul heard her swallow. "Aren't you usually at taekwondo or parkour or whatever crazy shit you're into now?"

Paul pulled back his phone to look at the time. 12:45 PM.

"Fuck," he sighed to Tara, sliding his palm down over his face and beard.

"Hah, you totally slept through your class didn't you."

"Apparently, yes."

"What the hell happened to you man? You sound like shit," Tara continued as she chewed another piece of food.

"Work ran late, then my car broke down on Wayland Road."

"Wait, seriously? When did that happen?"

"Probably fifteen minutes after I texted you."

"You should have called me,” Tara said. “I would have come get you."

Paul sighed. "My phone died. Besides, this guy helped me."

"What guy?'" Tara asked as she slurped a drink loudly through a straw.

"Where are you anyway? You eat like an animal."

"Jesus, you're avoiding the question."

Paul breathed in. “This customer came to The Hilltop at the end of the night with a black eye. I offered him a drink on the house and he left. Then lo and behold, my car breaks down and there he is on a motorcycle. He turns out to be some sort of mechanic and fixes the thing so I could get home.”

“Huh,” Tara mused. “Why does the weirdest shit always happen to you?”

“I’m so unpopular even the universe hates me, apparently.”

Tara scoffed. “That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard. Everyone loves you.”

Although Paul knew his friend’s comment was meant to be lighthearted, it struck a chord. Suddenly Paul felt like getting out of the house.

Tara must have sensed something was off because her next question was, “Have you heard from Alex?” Her voice was soft and unhumored.

That was the breaking point for Paul. “No. Listen—I have to call someone about my car, I’ll talk to you later.”

Tara was silent for a second. Then, “Yeah sure, good luck.”

“Thanks,” he said before hanging up.

Paul rubbed his forehead before pushing up and out of bed. Avoiding the haphazard book maze that was his apartment floor, he walked into his bathroom.

He might as well shower before he left the house and attempted at salvaging what remained of his shitty ass car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been a bartender nor do I know jack shit about mechanical engineering. Apologies if I've offended any professionals and/or car lovers. You may need to suspend your disbelief a bit. ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading the first chapter. You can visit me on tumblr: @darylxjesus
> 
> I love comments. Please write below and let me know what you think! :)


	2. Chapter 2

The muffled sound of shifting blankets crackled from the other end of Paul’s cell phone. In the near distance, Paul could hear the tell-tale murmurs of a woman moaning. Then a dazed, “ _Who’s this_?”

Paul resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He balanced his phone between his ear and shoulder, clicked open his car door, and ducked onto the velvety fabric of the driver's seat. Although the beginning of September ushered in cooler weather, today the lingering humidity of August permeated the air and the inside his sedan felt stifling.

“Kal, it’s Jesus,” he sighed, leaving the car door open to release some of the hot air.

“Oh,” Kal said, clearing his throat. “H-hey man.”

Paul took a deep breath and rubbed the crown of his nose with his index finger and thumb. “Hey. Listen, could you—”

“Sorry about last night,” Kal blurted before Paul could finish. “Closing, I mean. I had this uh, thing—last minute, you know. Emergency.”

Paul heard the nearby woman giggle into what he presumed was a pillow. _Emergency my ass._

“That’s fine, I hope everything’s okay,” Paul lied, playing dumb. “Actually, I was wondering if you could cover some of my shift tonight.”

As annoyed as Paul had been yesterday when Kal bailed before closing, perhaps his actions had been a blessing in disguise. Paul’s car would have flunked out eventually last night and he would've had to deal with it today regardless. At least now he had leverage—Kal wouldn't pull another excuse after yesterday.

“Tonight? Yeah, yeah that should be fine,” his co-worker answered.

“Thanks. I had some car troubles yesterday and I have an appointment to have it looked at. I'm not sure how long I’ll be gone, but it won’t be all night. Maybe until seven to play it safe.”

“Yeah, of course. I can do that," Kal said, tone overly polite.

“Great, thanks. I’ll let Gregory know.”

“No problem.”

Paul ended the call with a swipe of his thumb and opened up a new text message. After last night, he wasn’t in the mood to kiss ass. Gregory would have to deal. 

> **Jesus 3:55 PM**  
>  Hey Gregory. My car broke down and I have to take it to the shop. I’ll be gone for a bit. Kal’s covering until I make it back.

After the text sent, Paul tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and sighed. He closed the door and rolled down all the windows—he was too afraid to use the AC given his engine’s fragile state, but it was far too hot to go without some form of air source. Taking a breath, he pushed his keys into the ignition and turned them. The car grumbled and turned on as if last night never happened.

 

* * *

 

Paul pulled into the parking lot slowly, careful not to hit any turbulent bumps as the gravelly asphalt transitioned onto higher, smoother pavement. He had passed this Midas many times on his way to work, and while he’d never frequented the place in the past, the chain seemed like a reputable option (and was the first result when he Googled _best_ _nearby auto repair_ ). Paul let out a sigh of relief after he successfully parked in a spot near the garage.

After parking, he walked into the main building and entered an empty reception area lined with plastic seats. An older, heavy-set man wearing a uniform sat behind the main counter, face scrunched in concentration as he typed into a computer.

Paul approached the desk and gave a close-lipped smile. “Hi there.”

The repairman blinked from his work and lifted his head, lowering the glasses perched on his nose as he appraised the man before him.

“I have an appointment?” Paul said. “I’m supposed to get my car checked out.”

“Name?”

“Paul Rovia.”

The guy nodded briefly before typing into the computer. He squinted into the screen. “Engine issues, breakdown, 2003 Civic?”

“That’s the one.”

“Alright, let’s take a look,” the worker breathed as he pushed himself his chair.

Paul followed the large man through the doors and back into the parking lot. When they reached his car, the worker popped open the hood and leaned inside.

After several silent minutes of fiddling under the hood, the repairman gave a low whistle. “Your engine’s shot son, that’s for sure. Can’t tell why for sure until we take a deeper look, but it could just be normal wear and tear.”

“I’m surprised this thing’s still running after a full breakdown,” the man added. “Although I am seeing some fine handiwork here…” he trailed off, brows knit in confusion as he stared at several intertwined red and blue wires.

Paul’s mind flashed to dark hair, narrow eyes, cigarette smoke. “I uh, I had some help,” he offered, clearing his throat. “On the road last night someone was able to take a look inside and get it back up and running.”

The heavier man frowned and raised his brows, impressed. “Well, whatever they did worked. But it won’t last, unfortunately." He straightened and shut the hood with a clunk before looking at Paul. “We’re going to have to remanufacture the entire engine at the very least.”

Paul’s mechanical knowledge was lacking, but a ‘remanufacture’ sounded complicated. His tone implied that it wasn't exactly inexpensive, either.

“And how much does that typically cost?”

The repairman raised his brows. “Well,” he sighed, “given the extensive damage and how old it is, anywhere from forty-four hundred to five thousand.”

Paul’s stomach dropped. He couldn’t afford that kind of expense right now—not with his landlord breathing down his neck and all his bills… 

“Five thousand dollars?” Paul asked with a skeptical brow.

“That’s certainly cheaper than buying a new car, which, in my opinion, would be the next best option here,” the worker responded.

Dragging a hand through his hair, Paul took a deep breath. “Five thousand sounds a bit high—is there anything you can do for a lower price—”

“Listen, son,” the man cut in, “we can do a diagnosis to find out more and get you an exact quote, but I don’t expect it to be any lower than forty-four.”

Paul sighed. Usually he'd negotiate his way out of this sort of situation, but the stern look on the older man’s face indicated he wouldn’t budge. “Alright. I’ll give it some thought," he said instead.

The man nodded then glanced down at the watch on his wrist. “I have to get to my next appointment,” he said before extending a hand.

Paul responded with a firm shake. “I appreciate you taking a look.”

“Of course. I’m Joe—ask for me if you want to schedule a diagnosis and maintenance.”

Smiling politely, Paul gave a quick nod. “Thanks.”

The heavy man waddled off, greeting a pair of customers who were waiting near the door. Once he was gone, Paul slumped against the side of his car. He cursed under his breath and sighed.

There was no way he was paying close to five thousand dollars to fix this thing. Yet, he couldn’t avoid repair—his sedan was running on borrowed time already and it was bound to give out altogether at any given moment. Surely another shop could give him a lower price, right? Maybe a chain like Midas was pricier than others. Digging his phone out from the back pocket of his jeans, Paul quickly opened his Google app and searched _auto repair near me_.

Several options loaded, the first being the Midas he was currently standing at. The next closest option was some independent shop he’d never heard of before. While the search engine's result provided a phone number and address, the place didn’t have a website or Yelp profile. _Of course the sketchiest one is the closest._

Paul didn’t have much of a choice—he’d have to check the closer place or he’d end up paying more money just to have his car towed from wherever it broke down next. This time he doubted any mysterious bikers with expert mechanic skills would appear to help him for free.

Sighing, Paul turned back to the driver’s seat. Time for round two.

 

* * *

 

 _Virginia Tire and Auto_ was perched underneath scattered trees on a quiet road off the highway. The tiny shop was better described as an oversized shed or detached home garage: chipped, light-brown paneling lined the boxy structure and two garage doors comprised the majority of its surface area.

The pebbly gravel of the small parking area crunched under Paul’s shoes as he walked toward the front entrance. A worn _open_ sign hung on a suction cup behind the front door’s window and a strange array of metal cans strung together with wire dangled from the doorknob. The contraption jangled when he opened the door, signaling his arrival.

 _Huh, that’s interesting_ , Paul thought.

The shop’s small reception area—well, if you considered a grease-stained counter and a lawn chair a ‘reception’ area—was empty save for an old-fashioned antenna radio and a small fan whirring in the corner. The device did nothing to alleviate the humidity of the cramped space; aside from that, there didn’t appear to be any air conditioning in the building. [The radio hummed a soft, staticky melody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4z3gkq_gWL4) and Paul felt a bead of sweat drip down the back of his neck as he walked further into the shop.

“Hello?” Paul called, cocking his head around the room to see if he missed anyone.

Nothing.

Paul sighed and ran his hand through his hair. Of course the place would be abandoned when his sedan was nearing death. To his own fault, he probably should have called before making the trip here. He contemplated leaving and moving on to the next Google result, but he doubted his car would even make it that far.

However, the sign on the front door _did_ say open, so at least one person had to be on staff. Plus, the radio was on—maybe the employee stopped out for lunch? Maybe they were working on another car in the other room?

Paul spotted a wooden door toward the back left that he assumed attached to the garage area. He was about to walk over there and investigate himself when the same door swung open with a _creak_ and _whacked_ against the wall.

As the figure walked through the doorway, Paul breathed in and put on his best smile. “Hi th—”

Paul’s smiled faded and his tongue lost its ability to form words as the man came into full view. Dark, greasy hair parted over blue eyes and hung above broad shoulders.

_You’ve got to be fucking kidding me._

The mechanic had on the same leather vest as last night, but today he switched his dark button down for a sleeveless tank. His tanned arms were bare and Paul could spot the beginning of a tattoo hidden under his bicep. Suddenly his throat felt very dry.

When Paul blinked his eyes up to the man’s face, he looked just as startled as Paul felt. The expression only lasted a few seconds, however, because a moment later his eyebrows and lips tightened in anger.

“Well, this is surprising,” Paul breathed, breaking the silence between them.

The man said nothing as he continued to stare at Paul, chest rising and falling as he breathed carefully through his nose.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Paul joked, attempting to alleviate the tension—and, admittedly, to damper his own nervous pulse.

The biker took another breath and walked forward, pointing an accusatory finger at Paul. “You followin’ me?”

“No, this is a complete coincidence,” Paul answered. Then, with raised brows, “Trust me, I’m as confused as you are.”

The mechanic tightened his jaw, guarded eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“I’m not following you. I searched for a repair shop online and your place was on the list.”

The man snorted. “Yea, an’ you just happened to pick this one?”

“Actually, no,” Paul said nonchalantly. “I chose the Midas about a half mile away, but it didn’t work out. That’s why I came here.”

The man stepped closer. “Well we ain’t open.”

Paul quirked one brow. “Your front door says _'open'_ quite clearly,” he said, pointing a thumb behind him. “I like the alarm system too—not exactly the door chime I’d choose for myself, but creative nonetheless.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “ _We’re closed,_ ” he growled before turning around and striding back toward the garage entrance.

Paul knit his brows and followed.

“My car’s parked outside. It doesn’t have much time left—as I’m sure you know,” Paul began as he walked behind the man into the garage.

“Don’t care.”

“Please, I need your help.”

The mechanic turned around to face him. “You best stop followin’ me, asshole, or you’re gonna pray you never set foot in here,” he said, index finger pointed toward Paul's shoulder.

Paul blinked down at the man’s tanned limb and then back up at his face. His black eye had settled into slightly yellow tones. "If I remember correctly, _you’re_ the one that showed up at my bar. What—are you going to beat me up over a drink?”

The man lowered his finger but breathed in deeply through flared nostrils.

“ _You’re_ the one that found me after my car broke down,” Paul continued. “How do I know you didn’t have something to do with that? How do I know you’re not the one following _me_?”

The mechanic narrowed his eyes and swallowed. “Fuck you. I ain’t done nothin’.”

“I never said you did. I’m just figuring that, logically, it makes more sense that you’re the one stalking me in this situation.”

“Well I ain’t,” he snarled.

As strange as the circumstances were, Paul’s instincts told him the mechanic had nothing to do with his car’s breakdown. He was ill-tempered, that was for sure, but not malicious.

Paul trusted his gut.

“Okay,” Paul breathed. “Will you help me then?”

The man tightened his jaw. “Why don’t ya just go back to Midas and leave me the hell alone?” he growled before turning back around and walking toward some metal gears on a nearby table-tray. He began fiddling with them, ignoring Paul’s presence.

Paul breathed in, staring at the angel wings sewn onto the back of the mechanic’s leather vest. He might as well be honest.

"I can’t afford what they quoted me. I’m hoping you can offer me a lower price.”

The mechanic snorted, back still facing Paul. “So that’s what this is about? You gettin’ some deal?”

“Well, I figure it would be a deal for the both of us,” Paul shrugged, walking toward the man and closing some of the space between them. “If I stay, you could make some more money today. If I don’t, you won’t.”

The mechanic continued to _clank_  the haphazard parts as he stacked them on top of one another. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t argue either.

“And if I leave now I won’t get far,” Paul continued. “My car will be towed and moved to another auto shop. I’ll have to get it fixed somewhere. If you give me a quote I can afford, I’d rather pay you to fix it.”

The mechanic turned around, finally setting the gears to a silent peace. “Ain't some charity case,” he rasped.

Paul thought back to the bar and how offended the mechanic seemed when he’d offered him the free drink. He had assumed the man's disgruntled behavior had something to do with his cheeky tone, but maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe it was about the offer in general.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Paul said softly. “I don't think that.”

The man flicked his eyes over Paul’s face, quiet.

Paul sighed and tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear. “Look, I know we got off to a bad start,” he began, meeting the man’s narrow eyes with his own round ones. “But I know you’re a good person. You wouldn’t have stopped and helped me on the road last night if otherwise. I’d be in far worse shape right now if it weren’t for you.”

The mechanic stayed silent, eyes focused on Paul’s. After a moment, he looked away.

“Yes, it would be more convenient to get my car fixed here—and ideal if I can afford it,” Paul continued, “but honestly I’d prefer you because after last night I trust that you know what you’re doing. Not because I think you’re a _charity case._ ”

“And what if I can’t offer you somethin’ you can afford?” the man said after a few beats.

“Then I’ll have to call a tow and find someone that can.”

The man took a deep breath and chewed on his lip. “Fine,” he rasped, voice gravelly.

Paul smiled. “Thank you.”

The mechanic stared at Paul for a moment before walking past him and swinging open the door back into the reception area. "Ain’t got all day.”

 

* * *

 

Paul leaned against the side of his car as he watched the mechanic bent underneath his hood. The man had been testing the engine quietly for the past half hour. Every time he'd turn a knob or pull a wire, the muscles in his arms would flex. Paul had to force himself not to stare.

"So, what's the damage?" Paul asked after clearing his throat, breaking the silence between them.

The man grunted.

"Great answer, very informative.”

The mechanic shot a glare in his direction and Paul couldn't help but smirk.

"The guy at Midas said he couldn't know for sure until he looked "deeper." Is that true?"

"Nah. Bunch of idiots.”

"They said they'd have to remanufacture the entire engine."

The mechanic pulled back from the car and rested a bent arm against the opened hood. He squinted one eye, avoiding the blaring sun as he looked at the shorter man. Paul ignored the way his pulse quickened at the sight.

“Nah,” the man answered, voice gravelly. “Replace the clogged filter, should be fine.”

Paul raised his brows. “Seriously? That’s all?”

“You _want_ a new engine or somethin'?”

“No, no, the less the better,” Paul said. Then he quirked a brow and added, “You know, you could have agreed with them, charged me more.”

“Who says I ain’t chargin’ you more for less shit?”

Paul smirked, pushing himself up from his leaning position against the side of the car. “Well, are you?”

The man rolled his eyes and ducked back down to his work under the hood. “Ain’t wasting a good engine on this piece of junk,” he grumbled.

“So that’s a no?”

The mechanic glared at Paul again. “It was, but if you keep up the chit chat I might change my mind.”

Paul lifted his hands, unable to contain his smirk. “Point taken.”

He leaned against the car in silence for the next few minutes. He pulled out his phone to check his messages—nothing from Kal or Gregory, which could either be a good or bad sign. A few seconds later, he felt the car bump as the mechanic shut the hood. Paul raised his brows and stood up.

“It’s gonna take me a day or two to fix,” the man said.

“Okay, not a problem.” _I guess I’ll be using Uber tonight._

“It’ll cost you about $700.”

“Seven—seven _hundred_?” Paul clarified.

The mechanic tightened his jaw. “That too high for you?”

“No, no that’s great,” Paul said. “The last place wanted five thousand.”

The mechanic snorted. He looked relieved, strangely enough. “I could replace your engine for two, ain’t that hard. Rip off.”

“Right? That’s what I thought,” Paul smiled. As their eyes met, his grin faltered.

“Hey, what’s your name?” Paul asked. “For real this time.”

The man flicked his eyes away and then back to Paul’s face. “Daryl.”

Paul raised a brow. “You one of those one-namers like Beyonce or do you have a last name too?”

The mechanic narrowed his eyes. “Dixon,” he grunted.

“I’m Paul Rovia, not sure if you remember. But most people—”

“Call ya Jesus, yeah I remember. Ain’t callin’ you that,” Daryl rasped before pulling his pack of Marlboro’s from the back pocket of his dark jeans.

Paul quirked his brows. “You religious or something?”

Daryl scoffed as he lit his cigarette and took a pull, blowing the smoke into the hot air. “Nah.”

Suddenly, Paul felt his phone buzz in his hand. He looked down—one missed call, _Gregory._

_Shit._

He unlocked his phone and saw there were also two new texts from his boss. 

> **Gregory 5:48 PM**  
>  Where are you?
> 
> **Gregory 5:49 PM**  
>  Need you on shift, place is busy. College kids.

Paul sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He looked up at the taller man. “Well, work calls. I have to get back soon.”

Daryl nodded, assessing him as he took another drag of his cigarette.

“Thank you—for this, for last night.”

The mechanic gave an awkward shrug.

“Should I pay you now? Or once it’s finished?”

“Finished is fine,” Daryl answered curtly. He fished something out of his other back pocket—a small yellow pad with a tiny pencil attached. He scribbled something onto the paper and tore it off, handing it to Paul.

“Price and what I’m chargin’ ya for,” he explained. “Shop's number is on the bottom.”

“Don’t you need mine too, then? So you can call when it’s ready?” Paul asked.

Paul felt strangely nervous—he’d hit on plenty of guys over his life and asked for their numbers. He’s offered his own numerous times with smooth ease. But asking a mechanic if he’d like his number so that he could call him when his car was finished being fixed was what gave him goosebumps. _Keep it together, Rovia._

“Yea, whatever,” Daryl grumbled before tearing off another sheet and handing it and the pencil to Paul. He took another drag of his cigarette before dropping the unfinished stick onto the pebbly gravel and snuffing it out with his boot.

Paul leaned against the car to write down his cell number. After, he stepped forward, dangling the sheet before Daryl.

“Call me,” he smirked, brows quirked over mirthful eyes.

Daryl narrowed his eyes and grunted, tearing the sheet from Paul’s hand. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the man’s cheeks looked a bit pinker than before. Maybe it was just the heat, though.

 

* * *

 

Paul’s Uber pulled into The Hilltop’s parking lot close to 6:45 PM. The driver was obviously new to the app—he got lost two times even following his phone map’s route—and ended up parking in the most awkward spot possible near the back door of the bar.

“Thanks, appreciate it,” Paul said, sliding closer to the door and holding onto the handle to push it open.

Before he did so, however, he spotted two figures in the dark alley. No one went back there save the servers stuck doing garbage duty, and these men seemed like they were doing nothing of the sort. Their conversation looked tense, awkward.

Furrowing his brows, he looked closer. One of the men was unmistakably Gregory. The other, he wasn’t so sure. He watched Gregory hand the man a large envelope—filled with what, he couldn’t tell—and then the second figure walked off.

Paul swung open the car door, walking out onto the pavement. He could confront Gregory now, but Paul would prefer to have more intel before causing another blowup between them.

Instead, he walked into the front entrance and sighed, ready to finish the remainder of his shift.

 

* * *

 

Given his absence for the first part of his shift, Paul was dealt closing duty again. Gregory didn’t seem to care about (if he even noticed at all) his car troubles. He simply gave the order, stomping out for the night by ten. At least Paul had Kal to help him this time, whatever that meant.

Paul didn’t return to his apartment until close to three, which wasn’t entirely unbearable given that he slept extra late and missed his Judo class. He was starving, though, so he pulled open his fridge and pulled out a box of leftover lo mein from the take-out he ordered two nights ago.

He grabbed a fork and slumped onto his couch, twisting the noodles from the box and taking a healthy bite. As he ate, he thought back to Tara and how blunt he’d been with her earlier today. He sighed and pulled his cellphone from his pocket and typed a quick text: 

>   **Jesus 3:01 AM**  
>  Hey, hope your day was okay. Mine was weird, again. Want to get Indian tomorrow?

Paul waited a few minutes, but no response. Figuring his friend was already asleep, he locked his phone with a _click_ and finished off the remainder of his lo mein. Once finished, Paul tossed the empty carton into the trash and his fork into the sink with the rest of his dirty dishes. He had a lot of cleaning to do tomorrow before his shift started, that was for sure.

Flopping onto his bed once undressed, Paul sighed. He closed his eyes, but he knew he’d be unable to fall asleep. He reached his hand over to his bedside table and fished a book from the lower shelf. He read several chapters before his eyes slid closed and his mind drifted to silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: @darylxjesus
> 
> Please leave a comment below and let me know what you think. :)


	3. Chapter 3

“I’m just sick of working my ass off. I already aced the exam.”

“Tara, I’m pretty sure the academy doesn’t accept anyone without passing some sort of physical examination,” Paul replied.

His friend looked down at her nearly-finished meal, absent-mindedly pushing around rice with her fork into the remaining _tikka masala_ sauce. “ _I know_ ,” she sighed. Rolling her eyes playfully at Paul, she added, “Is it _really_ necessary for me to do three-hundred pushups to become a cop, though?”

“I could help you.”

Tara scrunched her face in mock offense. “Oh _nuh-uh_ , I’m not letting your ninja shit anywhere near me.”

“Are you sure? What police academy would deny someone with _parkour_ skills?” Paul teased as he took a bite of his curry.

“Uhhh…like _any_ sensible one? They’ll probably be afraid I’ll jump around from building to building like some Batman wannabe.”

“I doubt Batman knew parkour. Maybe Spiderman, though.”

Tara rolled her eyes, sighing. “Why I did I become friends with you…”

Paul snorted and ate another forkful of curry and rice.

After a sip of water, Tara cleared her throat. “Anyway, enough with me. How are you?”

Paul shrugged. “Fine. Glad I don’t have to work tonight,” he said after swallowing.

“Huh, I wonder how that’s going. Given you’re the only competent person that works there and all.”

“Tara,” Paul warned.

“What? Just tellin’ it like it is,” she said.

The brunette paused then, placing her fork on the table and taking a breath. “I’m sorry about the other night, by the way.”

Paul flicked his eyes down to his almost empty plate. He gave a nonchalant shrug and frowned. He knew exactly what she was referring to, but he didn’t want to get into it. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

He could hear his friend sigh across the table. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Breathing in, Paul lifted his eyes. “It’s fine, Tara. No big deal.”

Tara gave a skeptical look. “If you say so.”

“You act like he was the one who broke up with me,” Paul replied, putting on a false smirk.

“Yeah, I know,” Tara said. “Just the things he said…they must have hurt, even if you were the one who ended things.”

Paul leaned back onto the hard plastic cushion of the booth behind him. Ever since he was young, he’d been the type of person who enjoyed helping others with their problems. He listened when his friends needed a confidant, he offered advice when they needed help—even when it was an inconvenience to himself. It made him feel worthwhile somehow, like his existence wasn’t completely pointless. But when the tables were turned and he was the one under question, he rarely allowed himself to let his guard down. Instead, he’d give a smile and brush the questions off, preferring to focus on his friends’ needs than his own.

Even though Tara was the closest friend he had these days, this situation was no different.

Paul sighed, shifting against the booth, and put on a soft smile. “It’s been months. I’m fine, I promise.”

Tara nodded and returned the smile. Either she believed him or decided not to push further. “Okay.”

A silent pause passed between them. Thankfully, the waitress walked over a moment later to collect their finished plates, helping to alleviate the awkward air.

“So,” Tara started after the woman left, “How’d the car stuff go?”

Paul felt his pulse quicken as his mind retreated to yesterday’s hunt for a repair shop. “It was interesting, but in the end everything worked out,” he said before grabbing his glass of water and taking a sip.

“Define _interesting_ ,” Tara said, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the tabletop.

“Well,” Paul breathed, “the first place I tried wanted to charge me around five thousand dollars.”

“Yikes,” Tara cringed.

“So I drove to another shop. Turns out the guy who worked there was the same one who helped me on the road the other night.”

The brunette paused, brows knit. “Wait, you mean the dude that came into the bar and then showed up on a motorcycle or whatever?”

The story sounded ludicrous, even to Paul’s ears. “Yep.”

“Huh. Well that’s a coincidence for you.”

Paul raised both brows. “Tell me about it.”

“Unless maybe it wasn’t,” Tara said, eyeing Paul. “Maybe he’s following you. Maybe he hoped you'd find his place. Dude, what if he’s some kind of crazy serial killer who hangs the skin of his victims in his giant basement freezer cellar!”

Paul scrunched his face and frowned. “Christ, how much _Criminal Minds_ have you been watching?”

“Binged six episodes last night,” she responded. “But that’s beside the point. Let’s get back to your stalker.”

“Tara, he’s not a stalker. Or a serial killer.”

“Fine. Maybe he’s trying to woo you.”

“ _Woo?_ Who says that?”

The brunette chuckled. “I’m kidding. The whole thing’s so funny, though. The poor guy must think you were following him too.”

“I know,” Paul said. “He did actually, wasn’t too happy about it.”

“So did you move to another shop, then?”

Paul raised a brow. “No, I convinced him I wasn’t a creepy stalker either and he agreed to fix up my car. He gave me a much better quote than Midas,” he said before taking another sip from his water glass.

Tara hummed. “All worked out then, huh? At least you got a good story out of it.”

Paul snorted in response, but for some reason his mind was stuck on dark fringe and blue eyes. Suddenly his stomach felt uneasy.

 

* * *

 

Later, Paul sat on his couch, bare feet resting comfortably atop his coffee table as he flipped through another page of his book. He’d read _The Lord of the Rings_ several times since his childhood, but never this particular edition. The large hardcopy encompassed all three parts, and the cover was inscribed with gold plated lettering against a dark green, leathery bind. It looked like something that could actually exist in the realm of Middle Earth, which is why he bought it at a used bookstore last week despite already owning three other paperback versions.

 _“God, you’re such a nerd,”_ he could hear Tara laugh at him.

Paul had returned home from dinner with his friend around eight. Even though he was tired from his afternoon shift at the bar, he’d decided to run through several exercise routines on his living room floor since he missed his class yesterday. Afterward, he’d showered off his sweat and changed into pajamas before flopping onto the couch, new book in hand. Now that it was approaching nine o’clock on a Friday night, he probably should feel lame for staying in and relaxing. If he was being honest, however, he really couldn’t care less. He wasn’t as young as he used to be and a little peace and quiet felt nice.

His quiet was interrupted a few minutes later when his phone started buzzing loudly on top of his coffee table. Dropping his feet and sitting up straight, he leaned over and flipped the iPhone, checking the number that ran across its screen.

Obviously it wasn't from anyone in his contacts, but he didn't recognize the number either. Paul debated ignoring the call—it probably was another “free” vacation from those spammers—but on the off chance it was someone from work he decided to answer. Even though Tara’s earlier comment had been a bit harsh, she wasn’t completely wrong.

“Hello?” he answered.

The phone crackled in response for a moment. Paul was about to end the call when a gravelly voice returned, “This…em…this Paul Rovia?”

Paul’s pulse quickened. “Yes. Who may I ask is calling?”

“Virginia Auto.”

“Oh."

He knew he recognized that voice.

"Daryl?” Paul asked after, smiling involuntarily. 

“Yea, uh, your car’s finished. You can pick it up tomorrow morning.”

“That’s great. I thought you said it’d take a day or two.”

“It’s been a day, ain’t it?” Daryl rasped.

Paul smirked into the phone. “Yeah, I guess you're right. You move fast.”

The man grunted from the other end of the line. “Alright—”

“You always work this late on a Friday night?” Paul felt himself say before the man could hang up. His mind cursed at the sudden outburst, but apparently his subconscious had other plans.

Paul wasn’t sure why Daryl interested him so much. They’d only met two days ago, and all of their interactions since then had been laced with what most would consider _less than amicable_ moments. Despite their hostile start, Paul was still intrigued by the man—he was gruff, unmannerly, not exactly hygienic, and by appearances could easily fall into the “southern redneck” stereotype. However, there was something beneath his surly exterior that seemed soft and kind, and far more intelligent than he let on.

He also wasn’t hard on the eyes either, that was for sure.

Paul wouldn’t deny that he enjoyed his newly-found banter with the man. Pushing the mechanic’s buttons was fun—and if his teasing fell a bit too much into the flirting category he definitely wasn’t complaining, although he doubted the man would return the sentiment. Not that that’s ever stopped him from trying.

“Why do you care, ain’t your business,” Daryl responded. Paul could practically hear the narrowed eyes in his voice.

“I meant no offense. I just can’t recall a time when I’ve heard from any of my mechanics this late at night—on a Friday, no less.”

“You got lots of mechanics or somethin’?”

Paul smiled. “No, just historically they’ve called earlier.”

Daryl harrumphed into the phone. “It ain’t that late. You’re the one who works into the night bein’ a damn bartender.”

“Well, that’s because my job requires me to do that.”

“And mine don’t?”

Paul sighed. He didn't want to get into another fight with the man.

“I’m glad you could fix it so quickly, that’s all,” Paul replied.

The man was silent for a moment. “Yea, whatever. So can you pick it up tomorrow morning? Ain’t got room for that junk hangin’ around.”

Paul snorted softly, smirking as he shook his head. “Sure, I’m free in the morning. What time works best for you?”

“Whenever.”

“What about eight? Is that too early?”

“Nah, I’ll be there by six.”

“Eight it is then?” Paul asked.

Daryl grunted. Paul took it as a yes.

“Great. Thanks, Daryl,” Paul said, unable to contain a smirk even though he knew the man couldn’t see him.

The mechanic hummed in response and then hung up, three quick beeping tones indicating his absence before the line dropped into silence.

Paul clicked out of the call himself and tossed his phone onto the couch cushion next to him. He felt strangely giddy, but maybe that was just all the post-workout endorphins kicking in.

As he continued to read, he found it hard to concentrate on Frodo and Sam’s journey as his mind kept returning to Daryl’s dark hair and strong shoulders.

 

* * *

 

 

Paul woke around seven the following morning. After checking his weather app and seeing that it was supposed to be another hot day, he threw on a light t-shirt and shorts. He pulled his hair into a bun and hung his sunglasses from the collar of his shirt, the weight pulling the fabric down to reveal his collarbones. He foolishly hoped the mechanic had an overnight change of heart about his air conditioning, but he doubted the place would be any less stifling than it was two days ago.

He figured he’d catch a boxing class at his gym around ten after he picked up his car, so he packed his gym bag with a change of clothes and sneakers. He’d need to drive to work right after to make it in time for opening, so he threw in pants and a darker shirt as well. He shoved his wallet into the back pocket of his shorts along with his phone. He didn’t want to have to fish through his bag for either of them.

Paul arrived at Daryl’s shop around 8:15 (his Uber ride took a bit longer than expected) and walked straight to the front entrance. The strange metal contraption rattled against the door as he opened it and stepped inside.

Unlike his previous visit, this time Daryl Dixon was present, sitting on the old lawn chair with his dirty boots propped up onto a nearby wooden stool. Paul’s entrance startled him from whatever he was doing—sharpening a hunting knife, it looked like—and he stood up, eyes locked on the shorter man before him.

“Good morning,” Paul smiled.

Daryl was wearing dark trousers and another sleeveless button down, topped off by his ubiquitous leather vest. His dark hair seemed cleaner than the previous two times they’d met, like he’d washed it recently. The dark strands parted over his tapered blue eyes and framed his cheekbones. The previously dark black and blues that blistered on top of his lower socket and upper cheekbone had faded mostly into yellows and purples. He looked better.

He looked good.

The man eyed Paul silently. “Car’s in the garage,” he rasped before dropping the knife onto the wooden stool where his feet had been resting.

“Okay,” Paul said as the mechanic began turning around and walking toward the back door.

Paul followed him into the garage, which, as expected, was humid and suffocating. He could already feel the sweat forming at the back of his neck and was thankful he decided to tie his hair up earlier today.

The small garage could only fit two vehicles at one time and Paul’s sedan was parked at the further end. Paul remembered the blue truck sitting closer in the garage from last time, and given the absence of cars parked outside he assumed that was Daryl’s only other client at the moment.

Daryl led him to where his car was parked and popped open up the hood. “Unclogged these two valves here given the pressure build up,” the mechanic pointed. “Then I replaced your filter.”

Paul quirked a brow, looking into the machinery under the hood. “I’m going to be honest, I have no idea what that means.”

The man glanced to the side where Paul was standing beside him. “Ain’t got time for mechanics 101.”

Smirking, Paul faced the taller man. “No need. Will my car be okay?”

Daryl flicked his eyes away from Paul. “Yea, it’s as good as it can be given the shit it’s been through,” he said before closing the hood.

Paul nodded as a brief silence passed between them. He knew at this point there wasn’t much else to do besides pay the repairman his $700 and leave, but instead he asked, “Where are you from?”

The man turned toward him, brows furrowed in genuine confusion. “What?”

Paul wasn’t usually a blusher, but he could feel his cheeks slightly color in embarrassment. _What are you doing, Rovia?_

“Well I’m from New York originally myself,” he continued, brushing off his own nerves as he placed his gym bag on the floor and leaned against the front of the car, “but I moved down to Virginia years ago. I haven’t heard many people with accents likes yours around here.”

Daryl stared at him, narrow eyes flicking once over his body. “What’re you playin’ at?”

“I’m not playing anything,” Paul replied. “Just curious. South Carolina? Alabama?”

“Georgia,” Daryl rasped, eyes still fixed on Paul suspiciously. “What do you care?”

Paul sighed, smiling softly and raising his brows. “You intrigue me.”

The taller man’s expression at Paul’s admission was a strange amalgamation of confusion and surprise. It only lasted a second before he scoffed, quickly glancing away. He began striding back toward the door that led to the reception area.

Paul dropped his head and smirked. After a moment, he pushed himself from the car and followed the man’s path.

When he opened the door, Daryl was standing behind the counter expectantly, gnawing on his chapped bottom lip.

“You payin' cash or credit,” he growled, finally meeting Paul’s gaze when the younger man entered the room.

“Credit, please,” Paul answered.

Paul watched with interest as the taller man pulled out some kind of credit card scanner and register combination and attempted to plug it into an outlet above the countertop.

“Haven’t used that in a while, huh?” he asked with a raised brow.

Daryl glared at him before returning to his handiwork. “Used to getting cash.”

“I could go to the bank and pay you in cash if you'd prefer.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he grumbled, pressing several buttons and whacking the side of the machine. That seemed to do the trick because the keypad of the device lit up.

Daryl looked up at the shorter man and cleared his throat. “Seven hundred.”

“Right,” Paul nodded, pursing his lips. He reached his hand into his back pocket and removed his phone so he could get his wallet. Placing the phone on the counter before him, Paul fished out the leather item. He opened it and slid his Visa from one of the sleeves.

Paul handed the card to Daryl and the older man swiped it through the scanner after entering the price. When the transaction went through, the mechanic extended his strong arm toward Paul, card in hand.

“Thanks,” Paul said softly before taking the card. He placed it back into his wallet and pushed the item back into his pocket.

Daryl bit the skin on the side of his thumb. “Come on,” he rasped, dropping his hand from his mouth. He then grabbed what Paul assumed were his car keys from the counter and walked toward the front door.

After they both walked outside, Daryl pulled open the garage door where Paul’s car was parked. Once the door was completely opened, the mechanic clicked Paul’s keys and the sedan beeped in return.

The man pulled Paul’s car into the parking lot shortly after. He parked it near the exit and swung open the driver's door, exiting the vehicle with the keys still in the ignition. The car’s seatbelt monitor dinged as Daryl walked over to where Paul stood.

“All ready to go?” Paul asked with a raised brow.

Daryl nodded. “Mhm.”

Even though a smile in return came easy, Paul felt the stirrings of disappointment in his stomach. Now that his car was finished, this might be the last time he saw the man before him.

“Thanks for doing this,” Paul said, voice genuine.

The mechanic looked away and shrugged. “Ain’t gotta thank me. Already paid me,” he replied matter-of-factly.

Paul gave a breathy laugh in response and ducked his head, grinning as he shook it.

Daryl stared at the younger man for a moment before flicking his eyes away.

Paul raised his head and looked at the dark-haired man before him with full eyes. For all he knew, the mechanic hated his guts and was just acting polite out of respect (well, _polite_ may be a fluid term for someone like Daryl Dixon) given that he’d just paid hundreds of dollars. He probably never wanted to see Paul’s annoying, bearded face again. But Paul hadn’t been lying earlier—Daryl genuinely intrigued him. He didn't want to say goodbye forever just yet.

_Might as well give it a shot._

“You know, if you’re ever in the area you should stop in at The Hilltop,” Paul said.

The mechanic flashed his eyes back to Paul’s face. He tensed, broad shoulders straightening.

Paul smiled and stepped closer into the space between them. “You deserve an actual free drink this time.”

Daryl tightened jaw and began chewing on the inside of his lower lip. His eyes narrowed and Paul could practically hear his mind working up a gruff insult or threat in response.

“Before you tell me off,” Paul said with a raised brow, “It would just be a thank you for all the hard work you’ve done and because you went out of your way to help me—twice.”

The taller man stared at him for a moment. Then, gruffly, “Whatever.”

_Better than a no, I guess._

“Okay, well you know where to find me,” Paul said. He smirked mischievously and added, “And you have my number if you ever want to chat.”

The mechanic narrowed his eyes once more. “I think I’ve heard enough of your _chit chat._ My damned ears might fall off.”

Paul smiled. “You injure me.”

Daryl snorted. He looked away and then began fishing his pack of Marlboros from his back pocket. He took one stick out and lit in his mouth.

Paul couldn’t help but stare.

“You gonna leave or what?” the mechanic asked, cigarette still between his lips. “Got shit to do.”

The shorter man smiled briefly. “Alright. See you around, Dixon.”

Daryl nodded once and walked off, heading back toward the garage.

As Paul pulled away in his sedan, he ignored the sinking feeling of disappointment in his stomach. Although Daryl didn’t outwardly deny him, Paul doubted the man would be interested in taking up his offer. He also doubted it would be anything other than a friendly drink on the off chance he did. Paul wasn’t about to go actually stalk the guy at his auto repair shop either, especially if Daryl wasn’t even interested in being his friend. Most likely, Paul would never see the mysterious biker-mechanic again.

Unless, of course, fate decided to throw them together a fourth time.

 

* * *

 

“Shit, and then—what did he say, Nicky? _‘You got nice buns?’_ Or was it _‘You got a nice bust?’”_

Brock leaned against the bar, alcohol-induced grin wide as he stifled laughter during his story. Nick stood beside him, looking far more sober and far less enthused than his friend.

Probably because Brock’s girlfriend—Angelica or Angela, Paul couldn’t remember—leaned against the taller boy, one arm draped over his shoulders.

“I don’t think he said either of those things,” Nick responded.

Paul breathed in, trying his best to stay interested in his customer’s story. Usually he found the pair entertaining, but the addition of Brock’s girlfriend inserted a weird, awkward air to their usual dynamic. Plus, Paul had been in a weird mood all night.

“Well, as much as I want to hear what happened next,” Paul continued, “I have to get to a few more customers.”

“Nah, it’s cool man. You’re the _best,_ ” Brock slurred, pointing giddily to the bartender. Nick gave him a look of sympathy.

Paul laughed. “Alright man, you’re the best too,” he said before sliding down the bar.

He took a few orders for a group of college kids and began pouring glasses of draft beer. Gregory walked behind him at the same time, watching him as the amber liquid foamed to the top of the first glass.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

Paul shrugged. “Fine. Slowing down.”

Gregory nodded. “It’s getting late. Last call should be in...?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Paul answered, starting on his second beer.

“Good, good. Let’s get closed up on time tonight.”

Paul pursed his lips and restrained himself from rolling his eyes.

“Sure.”

Gregory patted Paul on the back before walking down the bar to attend to a few other customers.

_Ass._

 

* * *

 

After all the customers had left—and all the staff as well, because apparently everyone had urgent plans on Saturday night but him—Paul cleaned off the tables and did a once over on the bar with soap and a towel.

Kal could clean it more thoroughly tomorrow afternoon for all he cared.

Paul gathered his gym bag with his dirty clothes from earlier and his grabbed his keys from the cubby in the back room. Just as he was about to exit the building, he heard a motor approach and saw two bright headlights enter the parking lot.

It sounded like a motorcycle.

Paul’s pulse quickened.

He pushed open the front door and stepped onto the parking lot gravel, squinting his eyes in the night as the bright light entered his vision.

Paul scanned the figure on the bike. 

Leather vest, broad shoulders.

_Daryl Dixon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Daryl showed up. Is he taking Paul up on his offer or is he there for something else...?
> 
> Please comment below and let me know what you thought! It helps me write faster. ;)


	4. Chapter 4

Paul held still, shoes firmly planted atop the black parking lot asphalt. Daryl stood only several feet before him as he pulled his helmet from straggly, dark hair.

_Well, this is unexpected._

The biker had turned off his motorcycle, therefore removing the blinding headlights from Paul’s view, but the neon signs outside the bar kept the parking lot illuminated in a soft red glow. After placing his helmet on the bike’s chair, Daryl glanced toward the shorter man and began walking in his direction.

Paul blinked, momentarily unsure whether the biker was real or a hallucination on behalf of his exhaustion and wishful thinking. But no, this was no mirage: Daryl Dixon was really walking toward him, flicking his eyes downward as he neared closer. Paul realized how awkward he must seem—standing and staring blankly at the biker without saying a word—so he cleared his throat and felt himself smile softly.

“Miss me already?” Paul asked once the man stopped in front of him, widening his small smile into a smug smirk. His heart betrayed his outward confidence as it began thumping nervously in his chest.

Daryl was chewing on the chapped skin of his bottom lip, but otherwise he wore the same unamused expression and narrowed eyes as usual. The taller man then reached into the back pocket of his pants and pulled out an iPhone.

Paul knit his brows, confused. The biker used that awful flip phone, not the device currently wrapped in his hand.

"Thought ya'd need this," Daryl rasped as he offered the phone to Paul with an extended arm.

Paul looked down at the item and recognized the patterned case. That was his phone.

_Shit._

Paul had been so occupied with his boxing class and then getting to work on time that he hadn't  even thought about using his phone once. His shift at the bar had been chaotic too. He'd assumed the lack of buzzing in his back pocket was due to Tara not feeling particularly chatty, not because he'd lost the item altogether.

The shorter man sighed, raising his brows as he accepted his cell from the other man. "Wow, I didn’t even realize it was gone."

Daryl snorted.

Paul gazed at the man as a moment of silence passed between them. His shaggy brown bangs were slightly matted to his forehead where the motorcycle helmet had pressed against his skin. Even though Daryl had to be at least a decade older than him, the look made the man seem younger than he really was.

“Where did you find it?” Paul asked, willing himself not to get flustered by his previous line of thought.

Daryl straightened his shoulders. “Countertop. Stupid thing was buzzin’ so loud I heard it from the garage.”

Paul nodded. “I must have left it there when I was paying,” he murmured as he looked down at the phone resting in his hands.

Breathing in through his nose, Paul couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed. For a moment he actually thought Daryl might be taking him up on his earlier offer. The hope had been foolish, of course: he barely knew the man and it wasn’t like Daryl had given any clear indication that he was interested in him— friends or otherwise.

Yet, Daryl _did_ go out of his way to return Paul’s phone. The man easily could have left the item at the shop and let Paul to show up at his own discretion. Daryl didn’t have to bring the phone to him. In addition, it was nearly two fifteen in the morning. Even though The Hilltop wasn’t too far from Virginia Auto, Paul was surprised Daryl decided to make the trip at such a time, especially on a Saturday night.

“I’m sorry, I really had no idea,” Paul explained as he looked back up at Daryl. “You didn’t have to come over this late. Thank you.”

Daryl grunted in response. Moving slightly, the man positioned himself away from Paul and stepped toward the direction of his bike.

Paul raised his brows, surprised at the man’s sudden move to exit. “Wait, Daryl.”

After a pause, the taller man turned back to face Paul. Although his unamused expression was still apparent, there was an air of nervousness that accompanied it as well. Paul breathed in, calming his own light stomach.

For the fourth time in the last four days, the two men found themselves unexpectedly in each other’s presence. Paul was a fairly rational person—he’d never been the religious or superstitious type—so he knew all of this was some strange coincidence. Yet, he couldn’t help but be further intrigued given how abruptly and repeatedly Daryl had dropped into his life. Even though he didn’t believe in fate or serendipity or any other deterministic mysticism, Paul couldn’t let that kind of thing go so easily.

“Listen,” he began, “I really appreciate you coming out here.”

Daryl stared at Paul before shrugging one shoulder casually. “Whatever.”

“Would you like to come in for a drink?” Paul asked, pointing a thumb back at The Hilltop’s entrance behind him. “I can open the bar back up. Anything you want on the house.”  

Daryl flicked his narrowed eyes over Paul’s body. “Nah.”

“You sure?” Paul asked with a quirked brow. “Technically now I owe you two free drinks—one for my car, the other for my phone. You can sit and have a smoke too, if you’d like.”

“Thought smokin’ wasn’t allowed inside,” Daryl retorted.

Paul smirked. “Didn’t stop you last time. Plus, anything to piss Gregory off would bring me great joy.”

Confusion passed over Daryl’s face.

“My asshole boss,” Paul clarified.

The shorter man began stepping backward toward the bar. He hadn’t locked up before the biker appeared on his motorcycle, so the front entrance was still open. “It’s really no problem, I basically run the place,” he continued.

Daryl appraised Paul with skeptical eyes. His feet stayed rooted to the dark asphalt, body tense and unmoving.

“Come on, the night is young,” Paul said as he stood outside the bar door. “I could use a beer myself. And you know what they say about drinking alone…”

The biker gnawed on his chapped lip. Exhaling, he rolled his eyes and walked over to meet him. “Fine. One drink if that’ll shut you up.”

Paul snorted and raised his brows. “Wow, I’m so flattered.” He then opened the door and waved a hand before the entrance way. “After you, Mr. Dixon.”

The gruff man gave Paul an annoyed glance before walking through the door frame and into the dive bar. Paul followed behind him, stomach feeling oddly giddy at the fact that Daryl actually agreed to have a drink with him.

 

* * *

 

Daryl sat down in one of the two-people booths that lined the divider between the table-top section and the actual bar. He pulled out his Marlboro’s almost immediately and placed one in his mouth.

“What would you like? Beer? Another whiskey?” Paul asked.

“Beer’s fine,” the man grumbled, cigarette still perched between his lips as he ignited the stick with the lighter cupped in his hands.

Paul flipped on the lights behind the bar and walked behind the wooden structure.

“On draft we have the usual Budweiser, Guinness, and Miller, as well as some American IPA’s, pale lagers, stouts, and ciders,” he began, motioning toward the tap. "We’ve got PBR, Bud light, Harpoon, Heineken, Corona, and a few more local lagers and ales in bottles. Any preference?”

Daryl sent him a sideways look and relaxed into the booth, soft smoke billowing into the dim, neon-hued light as he exhaled. “Whatever.”

The sight sent shivers down Paul’s spine, but he ignored it with a deep breath. _Christ, keep it together Rovia._

“Alright,” Paul responded, clearing his throat. Paul opted for two glasses of the bar’s most popular draft IPA. If Daryl hated it he couldn’t complain—that’s what he gets for being vague.

Once he finished pouring the beers, Paul joined Daryl at the small booth and sat opposite him. He pushed one drink across the wooden tabletop and into the taller man’s space. Daryl moved aside his pack of Marlboro’s to accommodate for the tall glass. After another exhale, he pulled the cigarette from his lips with his right hand and took a short gulp of his beer with his left.

“How do you like it?” Paul asked once Daryl finished.

The man wiped a bit of foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand and stared at Paul from behind messy bangs. "S’fine.”

 _Okay, so that’s better than hate,_ Paul thought. _Hopefully._

The bartender sipped his own drink and then placed the glass down, keeping one hand wrapped around its circumference. Neither men spoke for several moments as they sat across from each other, drinking and smoking.

Clearing his throat, Paul finally decided to break the silence. “So, what made you decide to bring me my phone this late?”

Daryl stiffened, eyes narrowed in Paul’s direction. He shrugged one shoulder. “Why’s it matter?”

“I’m just curious,” Paul said. “You could’ve left it there or waited for me to come back instead, but you didn’t.”

Daryl took a drag of his cigarette. He shrugged his shoulders again and dropped his eyes down to his cup. He was silent for a good minute and Paul almost thought the man wasn’t going to answer.

“Didn’t hear the damn thing until a few hours ago,” he said a moment later, voice extra gravelly from the smoke. “Tried callin’ the number you gave, but it was the same one.”

Paul gave a small smirk. “Yeah, I don’t have a landline. Sorry about that.”

The mechanic glanced up at him. Their eyes locked for a moment until the older man flicked his away again, taking another inhale of his cigarette.

“Thought maybe you’d stop by after work,” Daryl continued. “When you didn’t show up I figured either you had no idea it was missin’ or you were still here. Thought I’d bring it to ya, I don’t know,” the man growled. He looked away awkwardly, obviously unsettled from Paul’s line of questioning.

Paul couldn't help the soft smile that formed over his own lips. He drank from his glass and then looked back at Daryl’s face. “You could have waited until tomorrow, I feel bad.”

“Was up,” the mechanic answered curtly. He then grabbed his glass of beer and took another gulp. Paul suspected there was something Daryl wasn't saying, but he didn’t push any further.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you did,” Paul said. “Not just because I’m relieved to get my phone back, but because if you hadn’t come by I wouldn't be graced with your wonderful presence right now.”

Daryl scoffed and looked away. He shook his head. “You always this ridiculous?”

Paul smiled. “I don’t know. You’ll have to hang out with me more often to find out.”

The man gave him a deadpan stare in response.

Paul stifled a grin and looked down at his drink. He moved the object in slight circles with one hand, swirling the amber liquid around in the clear glass.

“So you said you’re from Georgia?” Paul asked a minute later, changing the subject.

“Yea, so?”

“Never been. Heard it’s beautiful.”

Daryl gave a dismissive snort. “S’alright.”

The smaller man raised a brow. “Why, where in Georgia are you from?”

The mechanic exhaled another hit of his cigarette. “Up north, the mountains. Then Atlanta for a bit.”

Paul nodded. While he never visited the state, he assumed mountains would at least be visibly appealing. Judging by the hunting knife Paul had spotted earlier he guessed Daryl was the outdoorsy type too. He didn’t know much about Atlanta specifically, but a large city like that definitely provided a completely different lifestyle than a small mountain town could. Daryl’s demeanor suggested he hadn’t been a fan of either.

“Why’d you come up to Virginia?” Paul asked. He was genuinely curious—he couldn’t imagine the man only moved here to work at _Virginia Auto_.

The mechanic glanced down and shrugged a shoulder.

Paul waited a few moments for the man to expand, but no answer came.

“I get it,” Paul said after the silence dragged on for too long, “One day I just woke up and needed to get the hell out of Syracuse.”

Daryl returned his eyes to Paul as he puffed on his cigarette.

“How long have you been here now?” Paul continued.

“Two months,” the man rasped.

Paul raised his brows. He wasn’t sure why, but he hadn’t expected his answer to be such a short period of time. As he looked at Daryl's face, he returned his attention to the healing black and blue on the man's upper cheek. The biker was certainly the hostile type, so Paul could imagine plenty of scenarios where his behavior would provoke some unsavory characters. However, he couldn't help but feel bad for the guy. Two months into a new start and he already gets punched in the face? Not the sort of welcome Paul would appreciate, at least.

“Oh, so you’re really new,” Paul continued. “How do you like it so far?”

“S’alright,” Daryl replied, mimicking his previous curt answer.

Paul sensed the entire subject was an uncomfortable one for Daryl. That or he just didn't want to talk to him, which was an equally if not more likely explanation. Breathing in through his nose, the bartender attempted to change gears again.

“My car is working great, by the way.”

The biker ignored his statement again, opting instead to knock back another gulp of his beer.

_Okay then._

“How long have you been a mechanic?”

Daryl placed the glass on the table and then looked at Paul with hesitant, narrowed eyes. “Why you askin’ me all these questions?”

Paul paused, breathing in. He gave an easy shrug. “Just making conversation. I’d like to get to know you.”

“Why?” Daryl asked suspiciously.

“I don’t know,” Paul admitted. “I like you.”

The man stared at him, guarded expression identical to the one he wore earlier during the day when Paul told the older man he _intrigued_ him. After a second, Daryl scoffed. "You don’t know shit about me.”

Paul raised an amused brow. “That’s why I’m asking the questions.”

The older man shook his head and glanced away. He sucked what remained of his cigarette and put out the butt with his boot against the tiled floor.

Picking up his glass, Paul swallowed another gulp of beer as he watched the man. “You just moved here, seems like you could use a friend,” he added after another moment of silence passed between them.

Daryl narrowed his eyes once again. “Who says I wanna be friends with you?”

“No one,” Paul sighed as he leaned back against the booth. “But if you really hated me I suspect you wouldn’t be here right now.”

The biker continued to stare at him behind his dark bangs.

“You know you can ask me questions too,” Paul said.

Daryl narrowed his eyes. “Nah, m’good.”

“Come on, I’m giving you a free pass. Shoot.”

The older man glanced at Paul before picking up his glass and taking a sip of the beer. After returning it to its place on the table, he sighed. “What’s with the _Jesus_ shit?”

Paul smirked, amused that his nickname was the first of Daryl's questions, as if it had been on his mind. Although he imagined most people found it a bit strange upon first meeting him.

“You mean other than the fact that I'm apparently the spitting image of our lord and savior?” he said, gesturing to his own face.

“People call you Jesus ‘cause you got a beard?”

The younger man raised his brows with mirth. “Don’t forget the eyes.”

Daryl met them briefly, then looked away. He snorted.

"It started as a joke here at the bar between some of the regulars and staff," Paul explained. "Apparently I reminded them of those stereotypical paintings grandma’s have in their houses or whatever. But I guess my reputation fit within the persona too. It just stuck.”

“Didn’t realize Jesus had a reputation for bein’ annoyin’ and chatty.”

"Ouch, you're breaking my heart, Dixon. I'll have you know I'm very Jesus-like."

"What, ya turnin' water into wine and bread into your body or some shit?"

Paul chuckled lightly through his nose. "Unfortunately I only have beer. No bread either, but my body is viable for eating. Figuratively speaking,” Paul quipped with a smirk.

Daryl shot Paul narrowed eyes as he drank from his beer.

The bartender replied with a smug smirk. Then, “In all seriousness, feel free to call me Jesus. Most of my friends do.”

"S'that what you want to be called?"

Paul opened his mouth to answer, but he paused. He wasn't sure that anyone had ever asked him that before, strangely enough. While he liked the moniker, there were times when the whole persona felt stifling. Tara always teased him for being popular, but in reality most of those people never saw beyond his Jesus facade. In their defense, that was the only version of himself Paul let them see.

"I don't mind either, really," Paul continued, breaking his line of thought. Technically it was the truth. "Your choice."

Daryl studied him briefly. “Still ain’t callin’ you that.”

Paul couldn’t help but smirk. “Alright, then it's settled,” he said. "Any other questions for me?”

“Nah,” Daryl rasped. Instead, he gruffly finished off his glass of beer, tilting his head back to swallow the remaining liquid. He stood up then, placing the empty drink on the table. “Should head out.”

Paul’s stomach sunk suddenly. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed that Daryl wasn’t staying any longer, even though the man did say he was only having one drink. Standing, he looked over at the man. “Yeah, no problem.”

Daryl looked back at him, hair still slightly matted against his forehead.

“You live far?” Paul asked.

“Nah.”

“That’s good. And you’re okay to drive? Or ride, I guess?” Paul asked with a quirked brow.

The man sent Paul his trademark narrowed eyes. “M’fine.”

“Okay.”

Daryl stared at him. He fidgeted awkwardly with the pack of Marlboros in his hand. “Thanks for the beer,” he rasped.

“Of course, any time,” Paul replied. “Thank you again for bringing my phone over.”

The man shrugged. “Welcome,” he rasped quietly.

Paul’s lips smiled softly on their own accord. “Well, have a good night, Daryl.”

“Thanks,” Daryl responded before turning around and walking out the front door.

After the man was gone, Paul cleaned their glasses in the sink and left them on the rack to air-dry. He flipped off all the lights and locked up, finally leaving the building and returning to his newly-fixed car.

 

* * *

 

When Paul arrived home, it was close to three-thirty in the morning. His apartment was still a mess—books and clothes were strewn across the couch and piled on the floor, his sink was piling up again, the garbage was overflowing. Thankfully he wasn’t working tomorrow, so he’d have time to get everything into place once again.

Slipping off his clothes, Paul stepped into his shower and rinsed off quickly under the warm water. While he’d cleaned up earlier at the gym, he hadn’t had time to actually shower. Instead, he'd opted to towel himself off and slather on deodorant before hitting the road to make his shift on time.

Paul felt much more relaxed once he was cleaned and changed into his sleep shirt and boxers. He slid underneath the covers of his bed, letting the comfortable material sink around his tired body. Grabbing his cell from the bedside table, he brought the phone near him and unlocked the home screen. He’d forgotten to check it before he left The Hilltop to drive home. Daryl had mentioned hearing it buzz against the countertop, so he assumed someone was either calling or texting him repeatedly.

_25 new text messages._

Raising his brows, he opened the Messages app to check who had been contacting him. There were several unanswered texts from Gregory asking what time Paul was starting his shift. _Woops. No wonder he was particularly unpleasant to me today._

The remaining texts were all from Tara, unsurprisingly. Most of them were her complaining about going to the gym and her hatred for push ups.

> **Jesus 3:45 AM**  
>  Sorry, wasn’t ignoring you. Just got home

His friend replied almost immediately, grey bubble popping onto his bright screen.

> **Tara 3:45 AM**  
>  I figured lol, no worries. Go to sleep
> 
> **Jesus 3:45 AM**  
>  Maybe take your own advice, huh?
> 
> **Tara 3:46 AM**  
>  Once I finish this episode of criminal minds I will :)
> 
> **Jesus 3:46 AM**  
>  That’s a lie and you know it. How was the gym?
> 
> **Tara 3:47 AM**  
>  Horrible. I never want to see another elliptical in my life
> 
> **Jesus 3:47 AM**  
>  You know, parkour can give you a good workout…
> 
> **Tara 3:47 AM**  
>  Not today, satan. Now go to sleep or I’ll start live-texting you this episode

The man snorted and exited the Messages app. Looking at his home screen, Paul noticed he had several missed calls as well. The first two were Gregory, the second Tara, and the last was from a number he didn’t recognize. It came in around eight thirty at night.

His stomach flipped as he realized who it must have been: Daryl mentioned in the bar that he’d called the number Paul had provided in an attempt to contact him, only to find out it directed to the same cellphone he was holding. The number probably belonged Virginia Auto’s landline.

Yet, as he stared at the number on the screen, it still seemed unfamiliar. Sitting up, he reached over into his bedside drawer where he'd left the receipt Daryl had written with the shop’s number on the bottom. He found the slip after scavenging around through a few papers and pulled it under his phone’s light.

The numbers didn’t match.

Scrolling back through his call list, he found a match: an answered call from yesterday night. If Daryl had called Paul's cell from the shop on Friday, then he must have called from his shitty flip phone tonight.

He breathed in, feeling uncomfortably nervous at how affected he was by this realization. He’d gotten plenty of guys’ numbers _on purpose_  over the years and never felt this excited.

 _You just need sleep,_ Paul thought to himself.

Paul dropped his phone onto the mattress next to him and closed his eyes, attempting to fall asleep. After several minutes of unsuccessfully doing so, he considered listening to music or getting his copy of _Lord of the Rings._ He knew the real culprit for his lack of tiredness—the phone resting next to him. Sighing, he picked it up once again and unlocked the home screen. He selected Daryl’s cell from his missed call list and started a new message.

He never had a problem being the first to make a move, but unless his objective was sex he didn’t reach out this late at night. Mostly because most sane individuals would think it was strange or desperate. Maybe he was both of those things or maybe he was just sleep deprived, but he knew he’d be restless all night if he didn’t do it. Daryl already thought he was _ridiculous,_ so how much harm could it really do? 

Paul typed quickly into his phone:

> **Paul 4:06 AM**  
>  Hey, this is Paul (also known as Jesus, although you’ve decided not to formally recognize that bit). Hope you arrived home okay. Just wanted to say thanks again and that I’m glad you stopped by. We should hang out again some time.

After the message sent, he quickly locked his phone and deposited it on the other end of his bedside table, as far away from him as possible. He shifted over to the other side of his mattress and buried himself beneath the comforter.

He fell asleep a few minutes later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment below with your thoughts! Feedback helps me write faster. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been reading and commenting. You guys are the best.

Paul slowly blinked open his sleep-crusted eyes as he stirred into consciousness.

Sniffing, his nose and beard brushed against something soft. He was confused by the sensation until his eyes finally adjusted to his surroundings: a halo of blankets and sheets were draped around his head, warm light glowing through the material from his bedroom window. With a deep breath, he pushed the covers down his body and exposed his heated skin to the cool, open air.

Paul remained still for a moment before gently sliding himself up onto one elbow and rubbing the remaining crust from his eyes with his opposite hand. He couldn’t recall what time he’d fallen asleep exactly, but judging by how groggy he felt he assumed his slumber didn't last for an extended period of time.

_How surprising._

Scooting himself closer to the opposite side of the bed, Paul leaned over the bunched comforter and reached toward his beside table. Typically he left his phone right at the edge for easy access when he couldn’t sleep, but as his hand fumbled against the wood he realized he had placed it at the other end. As his mind cleared from sleepiness, he remembered why he’d put it there in the first place.

Paul pulled back his arm with a sigh and returned to his earlier position. His exhaustion last night must have gotten the best of his common sense.

While he regretted sending Daryl that text so late, there wasn’t much he could do about it now. Nonetheless, his stomach felt uneasy. He’d prefer to attribute the feeling solely to hunger and sleep deprivation, but he knew part of himself actually was nervous to check his cell phone.

Again, there wasn’t anything he could do about it at this point. Paul doubted the man responded anyway.

He pushed himself up and moved aside the comforter, swinging his legs around over the edge of the bed. After he stood, he grabbed the phone, flipped it over in his hands, and unlocked it.

_No new messages._

While his initial anticipation dissipated, Paul’s general uneasiness remained. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed that Daryl hadn’t replied. Tossing his phone onto his bed, Paul walked out of his bedroom and into the living area of his apartment.

 

* * *

 

Paul spent the remainder of his morning and early afternoon cleaning. He started with the dishes—they’d begun to smell overnight—and then moved on to the clothes scattered around his couch. He even straightened out his book collections against the wall so that his floor was free of clutter. Once he had enough open space, Paul began his usual workout routine of pushups and sit-ups and even threw in some handstands for balance.

After showering, Paul opened his fridge to make lunch. The nearly-empty shelves reminded him of how badly he needed to go shopping. Currently, only a half-filled bag of bread, a pack of sliced cheese, two beers, old Chinese leftovers, and a pouch of lettuce sat inside.

Sighing, Paul shut the fridge door and grabbed his car keys from the countertop.

 

* * *

 

The Food Lion closest to his apartment was bustling with customers. Paul usually avoided shopping on Sundays given the crowding, instead opting for times before his shifts at the bar so he could bypass the masses of tired wives and husbands and hungover youths. His pitiful lack of food at home didn’t give him much of a choice today, however.

As he wheeled his cart down the fresh vegetable aisle, he felt his phone vibrate in his hoodie pocket. He paused, immediately pulling out the item and stopping in the middle of the aisle to check its screen.

_2 new messages from Tara._

> **Tara 3:02 PM**  
>  Hey  
>  **Tara 3:02 PM**  
>  What are you up to?

Paul tapped a quick message in return before pushing the phone back into his pocket.

> **Jesus 3:03 PM**  
>  At the grocery

Another buzz indicated Tara’s reply, but he didn't feel like responding. While he hadn't thought about the whole texting scenario since this morning, apparently his subconscious mind was still a bit on edge. Paul didn’t know why, though. It wasn’t that big of a deal—he barely knew the guy and if he was being honest with himself, the chances of Daryl actually answering were slim to none. Maybe the mechanic didn’t hate him, but that didn’t mean he was interested in fostering any sort of friendship.

“Excuse me,” suddenly came an annoyed voice from behind Paul, distracting him from his thoughts. Turning around, he spotted a short, older woman, hands wrapped tightly around the handle of her full cart.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Paul returned politely. He awkwardly maneuvered his cart to the side of the aisle to make ample room for the woman to pass.

The customer shot him an irritated look and wheeled her large pushcart down the lane with determined strength.

Paul struggled to contain his eyes from rolling. He then forced himself to focus to the piles of tomatoes and peppers surrounding him.

 

* * *

 

It was nearly four o’clock when Paul returned to his apartment complex. After parking his car in the closest open spot near the door, he walked around to the trunk to retrieve the groceries. He might have gone a bit overboard with the amount he’d purchased, but at least he’d have plenty of food for the rest of the week. Still, bringing all of the plastic bags up to his place would take two trips.

By the second round, his biceps were burning. While he was certainly more agile and flexible than the average individual, his shorter, more slender frame wasn’t always the most conducive to carrying heavy items. His arms were defined and strong enough to send someone reeling with a punch (and to break a wooden plank in half, as he learned in his last month’s Karate class). Apparently carrying over ten bags of heavy food at one time was enough to make him sore, however.

Paul gently dropped the bags onto his wooden floor once he returned to his apartment. He kicked close the door and sighed, leaning back down to pick up several bags and place them on his counter top. As he lifted a particularly heavy bag filled with several large bottles of juice, an unexpected vibration buzzed against his torso where his hoodie’s pocket was aligned.

He’d answered a few more of Tara’s texts while waiting in line to pay, but hadn’t replied to her last few since he had checked out. After pushing the juices to a safe spot in the corner of his countertop, Paul pulled out his phone and unlocked the home screen.

_4 new messages._

Entering the Messages app, he clicked on Tara’s name and viewed the texts he missed.

> **Tara 3:44 PM**  
>  Yo I’m having a party at my place  
>  **Tara 3:45 PM**  
>  Well, more like a get-together? I don’t know lol. I just want to get wasted and not go outside  
>  **Tara 3:45 PM**  
>  Are you working this fri or sat?  

Paul smirked and typed out his response.

> **Jesus 4:04 PM**  
>  Sounds good to me. Who’s coming? And I’m working both days but only the early shift Saturday, so that night I should be free

The grey bubble of Tara’s impending reply appeared, and her text followed soon after.

> **Tara 4:04 PM**  
>  Rosita, Eugene, Sasha, maybe some others  
>  **Tara 4:05 PM**  
>  Saturday it is lol. Apparently people want to see you Mr. Popular, so your bitch-ass has to show up
> 
> **Jesus 4:05 PM**  
>  Fine, fine…I guess I’ll come
> 
> **Tara 4:05 PM**  
>  My place, 9:30 PM. ;)

Paul shook his head and exited their conversation. He hadn’t hung out with the group in a while, so it would be nice to see everyone and blow off some steam. Especially after a long day working alongside Gregory.

Suddenly, his mind shifted back to his phone as his eyes spotted a little red bubble with the number one inside hovering over the Messages app. Knitting his brows, he returned to his conversations to make sure he hadn’t missed anything from Tara. That’s when he realized he’d completely overlooked a separate message.

One from an unknown number. Daryl’s number.

Breathing in, Paul tapped on the conversation.

> **Daryl 3:42 PM**  
>  How did you get this number

Paul couldn’t help the snort that escaped him as he smiled into the phone. He imagined the way the biker’s hooded eyes would narrow in suspicion if he’d said it to his face, as well as the mechanic squinting down into his little flip phone, large thumbs typing out the words he currently read on screen.

While the message wasn’t exactly reassuring, Paul felt strangely giddy. _At least he responded, right? I can work with that._

Leaning against the countertop, Paul looked down at the little grey bubble. Daryl had taken about 12 hours to respond to his original text, so technically he should wait a few hours himself as to not seem overly desperate. Yet, his texting game was pretty much decimated the minute he'd sent the older man a message at four in the morning. As he took another deep breath, Paul began typing out his reply.

_Fuck it._

> **Paul 4:07 PM**  
>  Well hello to you too.  
>  **Paul 4:07 PM**  
>  I read your mind, of course. Part of my Jesus powers. You know, walking on water, raising people from the dead, telepathically getting numbers

He paused, unsure whether or not he should send anything else. Shoving the phone back into his pocket, he returned to unpacking his groceries as he awaited Daryl’s next response.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Paul sat at his small kitchen table eating the chicken stir-fry he’d cooked for dinner. Next to him sat his large copy of _The Lord of the Rings_. He'd made some decent progress since he first started the tome a few nights ago, but that was unsurprising given how many times he’d already read the trilogy. As he swallowed a forkful of carrots and snap peas, he flipped another page, focusing on the small typed words below him.

Once he finished his meal, Paul rinsed his plate in the sink and placed it inside the dishwasher with his other dirty utensils. While he briefly considered continuing to read, he opted to return to the book before going to sleep. Instead, he reclined onto his couch and clicked on the television.

Paul flipped through several channels, nothing of interest capturing his attention. He was about to give up and switch to Netflix, but a vibration on the cushion distracted him.

He glanced down at his phone's bright screen. _1 new message from Daryl._

Much to his own embarrassment, he felt a smile cross his lips.

> **Daryl 5:23 PM**  
>  That supposed to be funny

Paul chuckled, tapping out his response.

> **Paul 5:23 PM**  
>  I’m hilarious, what can I say

Daryl replied a few minutes later.

> **Daryl 5:27 PM**  
>  Yea okay
> 
> **Paul 5:28 PM**  
>  Was that sarcastic, Mr. Dixon?

After waiting several minutes with no response, Paul added:

> **Paul 5:35 PM**  
>  All kidding aside, you called me from this number. Just thought I’d reach out and let you know I had a good time. I’m assuming you returned home safely?

As some documentary droned from the screen across from him, Paul focused on his phone, checking his email and other app notifications as he waited for a response. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Thirty. Sighing, he dropped his phone onto the couch cushion and returned his attentions to the television once more.

Nothing on Netflix seemed intriguing, so he switched over to HBO Go. Sunday night was a good time as any to start re-watching Game of Thrones. Plus, a little bit more Kit Harington in his life could never hurt.

Half-way into the second episode of the first season, Paul was startled from Ned and King Robert’s conversation as his cell reverberated against his thigh.

Paul smirked.

> **Daryl 7:37 PM**  
>  Im fine

The younger man was about to type back when another text appeared:

> **Daryl 7:38 PM**  
>  Sorry. Forgot I called

Paul’s lips quirked from a smirk into a close-lipped smile. _This guy is too much._

> **Paul 7:38PM**  
>  Wait, did you really think I like stalked down your number or something?
> 
> **Daryl 7:41 PM**  
>  Dont know. Wouldnt be surprised

From Daryl’s perspective, Paul was some random bartender who, in the same night, offered him a free drink and appeared before him in the middle of the road with a broken down car, then showed up at his shop the next day, offered him more drinks two days later and texted him at four o’clock that following morning. Paul guessed his apprehension was understandable given the circumstances. Although, in his own defense, he could make the same argument from his own viewpoint.

> **Paul 7:42 PM**  
>  I assure you there was no stalking whatsoever  
>  **Paul 7:42 PM**  
>  How do I know you didn’t purposefully call me from your cell so I’d have your number?
> 
> **Daryl 7:44 PM**  
>  Because I didnt
> 
> **Paul 7:44 PM**  
>  Wow, great argument Daryl. Very convincing…
> 
> **Daryl 7:45 PM**  
>  Yours aint any better

Paul smirked again and shifted his position on the couch, extending one leg to get more comfortable.

> **Paul 7:45 PM**  
>  Fair. Okay, so you didn’t put your number in my phone, I didn’t stalk your number down. Deal?
> 
> **Daryl 7:47 PM**  
>  Fine

Paul hovered his thumbs over his keyboard, unsure what he should say next. While he always enjoyed a bit of casual flirting, he still had no idea if Daryl was interested in men. Paul was the last person to assume another's sexuality by their appearance or personality—hell, he was sure half the people who knew him still thought he was straight—but Daryl hadn’t exactly given him much hope. Even if he was into guys, that didn't necessarily mean he was interested in Paul. He didn't want to come on too strong or be the guy who couldn't take a hint. Still, the man could have ignored his text or told him to back off, and he seemed at least semi-responsive.

Paul hadn’t been lying last night. He liked Daryl. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he wanted to know more about him. It couldn’t hurt to at least try and keep the conversation going. If Daryl told him to fuck off, then so be it.

Sighing, he settled on a neutral response:

> **Paul 7:49 PM**  
>  So what are you up to this evening?  

The younger man waited for an answer, but nothing came after several minutes. He attempted to focus on Jon Snow looking wistfully off-screen, but even he wasn’t distracting enough to ease his anticipation. As the episode neared its end, his cell finally buzzed again.

> **Daryl 8:05 PM**  
>  Working

Paul raised one brow. He was surprised Daryl was working on a Sunday night, but based on their earlier conversations it seemed the mechanic always stayed late at the shop.

> **Paul 8:06 PM**  
>  That sucks, man  
>  **Paul 8:06 PM**  
>  I, fortunately, did not get stuck working any shifts today
> 
> **Daryl 8:08 PM**  
>  Congrats?
> 
> **Paul 8:09 PM**  
>  Hey, don’t make fun  
>  **Paul 8:09 PM**  
>  But yes actually, congratulations should be in order. Any day I don’t have to hear Gregory’s condescending voice is cause for celebration
> 
> **Daryl 8:10 PM**  
>  Why dont you just quit
> 
> **Paul 8:10 PM**  
>  Well no more free drinks on the house for you, for one
> 
> **Daryl 8:13 PM**  
>  Dont need that
> 
> **Paul 8:14 PM**  
>  Alright, well it’s on the table. You only had one drink last night. I owe you two.
> 
> **Daryl 8:14 PM**  
>  You already paid me

Paul gave a breathy snort as he remembered Daryl’s words from the other day.

> **Paul 8:15 PM**  
>  It’s not payment, remember?  It’s a thank you
> 
> **Daryl 8:16 PM**  
>  You already thanked me

Paul rolled his eyes but couldn’t help his lips from quirking up at the ends in an amused, soft smile.

> **Paul 8:16 PM**  
>  For my car, not my phone  
>  **Paul 8:17 PM**  
>  Although, in retrospect my car is probably worth two drinks in itself
> 
> **Daryl 8:17 PM**  
>  Piece of junk
> 
> **Paul 8:17 PM**  
>  Well not anymore, thanks to you

Paul sat through another episode of Game of Thrones without the mechanic answering. As much as he wanted to continue the conversation, he figured the man was busy working—if that was actually true. Whatever he was up to, Paul didn’t want to be annoying. If the guy didn’t want to talk to him, then that was his choice.

 

* * *

 

Paul’s week flew by quickly. He went to the gym and his martial arts classes each day, worked the closing shift every night, finished _Lord of the Rings_ , and binged the entire first season of Game of Thrones. By Friday night he was exhausted, but the packed bar gave him no opportunities for relaxation. College kids from nearby universities and locals alike crowded near the television to watch the Redskins (much to Paul's jealousy because he was looking forward to the game), a large squad of friends who kept ordering rounds of tequila loudly celebrated someone's birthday across the table tops, and smaller but equally as obnoxious groups of drunk people filled the cracks in the space between.

When Paul finally was able to get a quick break, he beelined for the bar's bathroom. Swinging open the unlocked door, he was faced with a couple literally fucking on top of the sink, the woman's blonde hair splaying across the mirror with each thrust. The pair didn't notice his presence so he just closed the door and turned around, rubbing his entire face with his right palm.

Given the bar only had one single-person bathroom and his bladder felt as if it was going to explode, Paul was forced with only one option: to piss out back in the far alley. Nothing was out there but the garbage dumpster, so he wasn't worried about being seen.

Pushing open the back door, Paul skipped down the concrete steps and into the alleyway. The temperature had begun to cool down over the past week, but the gust of chillier air felt nice in contrast to the cramped, overheated bar.

As far as he could tell no one was around, so he walked down past the dumpster to a shadowy corner and unbuttoned his jeans. After he finished, he zipped up and turned to walk back to the bar. Even if the couple had finished, he wasn't touching anything in the bathroom until Kal wiped the place down. There were some Lysol disinfectant hand wipes the stock room he'd have to wash his hands with instead.

Before he stepped forward from the shadows, however, he sensed a presence nearby and smelled cigarette smoke. That's when he heard the voices.

In the opposite corner of the alley stood two men, one of which was Gregory. Paul's mind instantly returned to the night last week when he'd spotted his boss speaking to another figure. He'd forgotten about it, but now that he was able to witness the men this close his gut knew something was definitely off. Quietly, he backed himself against the brick wall, watching the exchange from the safety of shadow.

They were speaking too softly for Paul to hear their exact words, but the conversation seemed tense. Gregory had one hand in his pocket and his shoulders were square and stiff, two ticks Paul noticed when the man felt defensive. The other figure, who was slightly shorter, stepped closer into Gregory's space. The shadows obscured the second man's face, but Paul was able to make out a mustache and light facial hair.

Their hushed voices strained louder as the conversation progressed, and Paul was able to make out a few sentences.

"He ain't gonna be happy about that," said the shorter man.

"He'll get his shit," Gregory returned.

"I need something now."

Gregory brought one hand to squeeze between his brows and lowered his voice. Paul couldn't hear the rest of the exchange, but the second man left soon after, flicking his cigarette onto the rocky gravel. His boss cursed and stormed around, stomping up the concrete stairs. Before opening the door, he took a breath and straightened his blazer. Then he calmly entered the bar.

Paul stood in the shadows, unsure what to do next. He still didn't have enough information to confront Gregory, and even if he did so the man would probably brush it off or lie. His best chance at learning more would be to quietly keep tabs on his boss' whereabouts while at the bar.

Regardless, he needed to go back inside before the man realized Paul was gone and put two and two together.

He quickly stopped by the stock room to wash his hands after entering the building. When he returned to the bar area, Gregory was handing two Heinekens to a pair of customers. The man spotted him quickly and appraised him with suspicious eyes.

"Where were you?"

"Taking a call, sorry," Paul lied.

Gregory stared at him, but sighed a moment later, apparently satisfied with his answer. "Just get back to work."

Paul nodded and returned behind the bar.

 

* * *

 

Thankfully, the bar was less busy during his Saturday hours. The pace started to pick up around eight, but Paul’s shift ended a half hour later so he didn’t have to deal with the impending wave of customers who typically showed around nine thirty and ten o’clock.

He arrived at Tara’s house just after nine thirty, and based on the cars parked along the curb he wasn’t the first to get there. After knocking, the front door swung open to reveal his smiling friend, her usual ponytailed locks hanging free beneath her ears. The redness of her cheeks and goofy grin indicated she was already a bit tipsy.

“Get in here, loser,” she said, stepping outside to push Paul into the house by both shoulders.

The door lead to a small living area. In the corner was a television set to a Spotify playlist of alternative music,[ a remix of a Tame Impala song blasting from its speakers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tfr-h6BaYN8). Rosita and Sasha sat on the couch drinking from red solo cups and Eugene was reclined in Tara’s favorite circular Papasan chair, an unopened bottle of Captain Morgan’s perched beside him.

Sasha approached him first. “Good to see you,” she said before pulling him into a quick hug.

Rosita smiled and waved from the couch. “Hi stranger.”

“Hi yourself,” Paul returned, glancing knowingly at Tara. His friend sent a warning look in response before walking into the kitchen.

Eugene greeted him next, his hug surprisingly tight. When the taller man pulled back, he kept both hands placed on Paul’s shoulders, expression serious.

“I have to ask you something important.”

Paul raised his brows and heard Rosita snort from the couch. He glanced at her and she was shaking her head. When he flicked his eyes back to Eugene, his stern look hadn’t faltered.

“Do you like Pina Coladas?”

Paul raised an amused brow and stifled a confused smile.

“And I do not mean that in a romantic sense as popularized by the 1979 hit _Escape_ by Rupert Holmes,” Eugene continued. “Nor am I assuming you like them based on any preconceived stereotypes of gay men.”

 _“Jesus Christ,”_ Rosita muttered from the couch.

Paul remembered meeting Eugene for the first time and not knowing what to make of him. Tara had been friends with both him and Rosita for years before they even met, and while she warned Paul of the man’s strange antics, she also explained he was “lovable and harmless.” Although the man’s social skills were a bit odd, he was actually quite intelligent and always a loyal friend.

“Not my preferred drink of choice, but I won’t lie—they taste good. Why?” Paul answered.

“I need your help.”

He raised his brow again. “Oh? How so?”

“Behind me you will find an unopened bottle of Captain Morgan’s rum. You cannot see it from here, but in Tara’s freezer is Pina Colada mix. As the only individual at this party certified to create and serve alcoholic beverages, will you guide me in making adequate drinks for our friends?”

Paul smirked. “Sure Eugene, no problem.”

The man dropped his hands from Paul’s shoulders. “Thank you. Your kindness will not be forgotten.”

Sasha was even laughing now, red cup brought up to cover her mouth.

As the three others began to chat, Paul walked into the kitchen to find Tara. She was pulling a tray of food from the oven.

“Shit, are those pigs in a blanket?” Paul asked.

“Yea buddy, you know I don’t disappoint,” Tara joked.

“Haven’t had one in ages,” he mused, stepping closer to smell the bite-sized snacks.

“There’s more where that came from. I felt like making all the junk I used to eat in college.”

“Hm. I’ll have to hit the gym tomorrow…”

Tara sent him a look and pointed her spatula toward his chest. “If you so much as breathe a word about me doing martial arts I swear to god, Jesus…”

Paul chuckled. “I’ve said nothing.”

After a moment, Paul lowered his voice. “So Rosita and Sasha seem to be getting along well.”

“Yeah, who thought they’d bond over their mutual shitty ex?”

“Never understood the appeal.”

Tara snorted. “You and me both,” she said as she used the spatula to scrape the mini hot dogs from the pan and onto a platter.

“Come on,” Tara said once she finished placing the meal, “let’s eat these and get wasted.”

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Paul sat on the couch, beer in hand. He’d had quite a few drinks over the course of the party—including Eugene’s Pina Coladas, which, thanks to Paul’s help, were delicious—and he was pretty damn tipsy. Sasha sat next to him on the other side of the couch talking excitedly with Heath, who had shown up fifteen minutes after he had. Tara and Rosita were laying on the floor hysterically laughing at Eugene: somehow the man had found one of Tara’s weird winter hats with bulbous tassels and was wearing it around as if nothing was amiss.

Sasha and Heath left about an hour later, and the two girls joined Paul on the couch. They all chatted about various topics, most conversations ending in laughter either due to Paul’s cheeky humor or Eugene’s ridiculousness. As the other three started a conversation about breakfast food, he looked down to check his phone. _1:02 AM_

Maybe it was all the alcohol, but he opened his Messages app and clicked on Daryl’s name. He’d attempted to avoid thinking about the man all week, but it hadn't really worked that well. For reasons he still didn't understand, he was a bit disappointed that the man had never responded. There were a few times he almost sent another text, but each time he convinced himself not to. He didn't want to seem too pushy or desperate. As he sipped his IPA, he stopped giving a shit.

> **Paul 1:03 AM**  
>  What’s your opinion on Pina Coladas

Several minutes passed and nothing returned. Paul finished off his beer and followed along with his friends’ conversation, trying to distract himself from thinking about the stupid mechanic. Then, suddenly, a buzz.

> **Daryl 1:19 AM**  
>  Do you ever sleep?

Paul smirked.

> **Paul 1:19 AM**  
>  Not typically  
>  **Paul 1:19 AM**  
>  But you’re awake too, so you can’t argue. And you didn't answer my question.
> 
> **Daryl 1:20 AM**  
>  Why you want to know about pina coladas
> 
> **Paul 1:21 AM**  
>  Just curious. I had a few tonight and they're surprisingly delicious
> 
> **Daryl 1:22 AM**  
>  Never had one
> 
> **Paul 1:22 AM**  
>  Really? Hm. Well I guess I know what to make you for your next drink…
> 
> **Daryl 1:23 AM**  
>  Aint drinking that shit
> 
> **Paul 1:24 AM**  
>  You shouldn’t knock it before you try it. Appearances can be deceiving.  
>  **Paul 1:25 AM**  
>  For example, most people wouldn’t guess I’m a black belt in Karate and Taekwondo
> 
> **Daryl 1:26 AM**  
>  No shit
> 
> **Paul 1:26 AM**  
>  Yes shit. When I warned you not to try anything that first night on the road it wasn’t an idle threat  
>  **Paul 1:26 AM**  
>  What about you? Have any hobbies? Aside from your bike?
> 
> **Daryl 1:28 AM**  
>  I hunt
> 
> **Paul 1:28 AM**  
>  I thought that was a hunting knife I saw the other day  
>  **Paul 1:28 AM**  
>  Do you do it for sport or do you actually eat what you kill?
> 
> **Daryl 1:29 AM**  
>  I eat them
> 
> **Paul 1:29 AM**  
>  What's 'them' ? 
> 
> **Daryl 1:30 AM**  
>  Deer, rabbit, squirrel too
> 
> **Paul 1:30 AM**  
>  You’re kidding.
> 
> **Daryl 1:30 AM**  
>  No
> 
> **Paul 1:30 AM**  
>  Wow  
>  **Paul 1:31 AM**  
>  I didn’t know Squirrels were actually edible. What do they taste like?
> 
> **Daryl 1:32 AM**  
>  Rabbit is the closest
> 
> **Paul 1:33 AM**  
>  I’ve never had rabbit, admittedly
> 
> **Daryl 1:34 AM**  
>  It’s good
> 
> **Paul 1:35 AM**  
>  Hm. Well you’ll have to take me hunting some time and prove it to me
> 
> **Daryl 1:36 AM**  
>  Aint catching nothing with your chatter box around

Paul smiled again, shifting on the couch to get more comfortable.

> **Paul 1:37 AM**  
>  I’ll keep quiet, just for you.

“Whoa whoa whoa, what’s going on here?” came Tara’s voice next to him. Paul hadn’t even noticed that she’d joined him on the couch. Rosita and Eugene were now on the floor playing some game on their phones.

“What?” Paul asked.

Tara raised an amused brow. “Really? You’ve been sitting here for like 30 minutes with a dumb ass smile on your face. I just thought you were wasted, but who are you texting?” she said, craning her head to get a look at his phone.

"No one."

Tara gave him an unconvinced look. 

Paul sighed. _Well, here we go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment below and let me know what you think. Feedback helps me write faster, for real. :)


	6. Chapter 6

Tara reclined next to Paul, shifting her body to face the smaller man as she leaned one bent arm atop the sofa’s pillows. Raising both dark brows, she waited for his answer.

Paul exhaled through his nose and reached forward to place his empty bottle on the edge of the coffee table. While he’d rather not have this conversation now, he knew his friend wouldn’t give up until he gave her something to deliberate on.

“This…guy,” he replied.

“Well I assumed as much,” Tara said, lips growing into a smug smile. “When did this happen? You haven’t mentioned him before.”

Leaning back and resting his head against the pillows, Paul stared up at the ceiling. He felt a bit dizzy from the sudden movement and his stomach churned with uneasiness. He was probably going to have a hangover tomorrow morning. _Well, this is wonderful._

Paul glanced over to look at his friend. “Actually, I have.”

“I don’t remember. Who is it?” Tara asked, head cocked in confusion.

Sighing, the bearded man adjusted his position until he faced Tara. “Remember the mechanic?”

The brunette blinked and furrowed her brows, only for her eyes to widen a moment later in realization.

“You don’t mean the guy who fixed your car last week?”

Paul pressed his lips together and gave her a look in confirmation.

Pushing herself forward from the pillows, his friend settled closer to Paul. “ _Spill_ ,” she commanded under her breath.

Paul rolled his eyes. “There’s nothing to _spill_ , Tara.”

“You don’t go from mechanic and client to texting each other on a Saturday night without _something_ happening,” Tara said. With a smile, she extended a hand and patted his jean-covered knee playfully. “So did he ask for your number?”

Paul shook his head. “No. Not at all—”

“So you asked him?” Tara continued before Paul could finish. “He probably came right on the spot after stalking you for so long.”

The small man knit his brows, frowning in distaste. “Christ, Tara. It’s not even like that.”

“I’m kidding,” his friend said with a tipsy smile. “I know he wasn’t stalking you.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Paul sighed, rubbing his left palm over his face and beard.

Tara cocked her head. “Care to elaborate?”

Shrugging, Paul continued. “I accidentally left my phone at his shop when I picked up my car. He returned it to me before I left work that night, we had a drink.”

Tara parted her smirking lips as if to speak, but Paul raised his hand before she could say a word. “It wasn't anything serious. Mostly me attempting to keep the conversation going.”

“Okay,” the brunette answered, “but that doesn’t explain how he got your number.”

Paul exhaled. “He called the number I gave for my car service thinking he could reach me about my cell. I texted him a thank you later that night.”

“And you've been texting each other ever since?”

“No. Last time I heard from him was Sunday.”

Tara nodded, but her earlier smirk still hadn’t dissipated. Paul could tell she was trying to control her amusement, but she wasn’t hiding it too well.

“So…what’s the deal?” she began. “I kind of imagined this dude as a pot-bellied serial killer when you first told me about him, but now I’m picturing a sweaty, shirtless model with blonde hair holding a large power drill…”

Paul snorted. “He’s neither of those things. But yes, he’s attractive…not in a conventional way, but you know, generally speaking,” he responded, waving his hand nonchalantly.

“ _Generally speaking_ , yes of course,” Tara teased with a mock serious face.

Paul attempted to stifle his own growing grin. “Listen, I barely know the guy. Would I like to know him some more? Sure. It’s still possible he hates my guts, so that may never happen.”

“I don’t think if he hated your guts he’d be texting you on a Saturday at”—Tara paused to glance at the watch on her wrist—“1:45 in the morning.”

“Well, I started it,” Paul admitted. “He was just responding. He’s not much of a talker, from what I can tell.”

“But he _did_ respond, so maybe he’s interested…?”

Paul raised a brow. “I doubt it.”

Tara’s expression a moment later indicated she understood his implication. “He’s straight then?”

Paul breathed in from his nose and frowned. “I wouldn’t know. But if I had to guess, probably.”

Tara nodded. “I know that feel all too well,” she said. Although she seemed casual in her response, Paul could sense the sincerity behind her words.

A while back, Tara had told him how she'd had a crush on Rosita when they first met. Friendship blossomed between them instead after she learned of Rosita’s older, ginger-haired boyfriend. As far as Paul could tell, Tara’s current feelings for her friend were strictly platonic, but he’d always suspected her dislike of Abraham stemmed from something other than anger when he dumped her for Sasha.

“It’s not a big deal,” Paul said, voice softer than before. “He just moved here from Georgia so I figured he could use a friend. It’s not like that, really.”

“Alright, alright. Well if you like him—in whatever capacity—then he’s cool in my book. And if he has no friends he should hang with the crew, we can show him the ropes around good ol’ V.A.”

“Who are we showing the ropes?” came Rosita’s voice from across the room. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor now, her phone now put to rest beside her.

“Jesus’ mechanic,” Tara answered with a tipsy smirk.

Paul rolled his eyes.

Rosita looked amused. “You really make friends with everyone you meet, huh?”

“You have a mechanic friend?” Eugene perked up. “Can he look at my windshield wipers?”

Paul sighed. “He’s not my friend. I barely know him.”

“What’s wrong with your windshield wipers?” Rosita asked, sending the mullet-haired man a concerned look.

“They don’t function.”

Rosita shook her head. “You know that’s dangerous, right?”

“Okay, I should head home,” Paul said, standing. He decided now was a good time to depart before anyone else questioned his non-existent relationship with Daryl.

“You okay to drive?” Tara asked from below him on the couch.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“We’ll head out too,” Rosita added, rising as well. “I have to drive this one home.”

“You guys are all leaving me, fuck you,” Tara teased, face scrunched in pretend offense.

Rosita walked over to her friend and wrapped her arms around her shoulders in a tight hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow, stupid.”

“Tomorrow’s not soon enough. I hate you,” she mumbled playfully as she wrapped her arms around the other woman’s waist.

When they parted, Rosita stepped over to Paul and gave him a quick hug. Eugene followed, hugging him tightly as he did when he greeted him.

“Thank you for your assistance today.”

Paul laughed. “Don’t mention it.”

Several minutes later, he left Tara’s house along with Eugene and Rosita. He waved as they parted to get into Rosita’s Jeep and ducked inside his own vehicle. Twisting the keys in the ignition, the engine roared to life and he drove off, heading back to his own apartment.

 

* * *

 

 

When he returned home, Paul flipped on the lights and toed off his shoes by the door. Padding into the kitchen, he stepped toward the sink and grabbed a glass to fill with water. He was parched and finished the cup in several long gulps. After, he turned on the faucet a second time and refilled the glass, walking into his bedroom with it in hand.

Once he changed and slipped into bed, he picked up his iPhone from his bedside table. He unlocked the screen and checked his messages: Tara sent him a quick text asking if he’d gotten home okay and Eugene another thank you for the Pina Coladas. Daryl, however, hadn't responded.

Paul could imagine a series of explanations as to why—the man fell asleep, he was bored and moved on to do something else, he found Paul’s message too annoying or suggestive and finally chose to stop answering—all were viable options. After quickly responding to Tara and Eugene, he decided to leave the conversation at that for the night.

Whatever the reason for Daryl’s silence, Paul hadn’t been lying earlier when speaking with Tara. He’d only known the mechanic for a little over a week and the whole thing wasn’t that big of a deal. The guy probably had little interest in becoming friends or even friendly acquaintances. He definitely enjoyed teasing and flirting with the older man, but he doubted it would lead anywhere. Yet, Daryl hadn’t been ignoring Paul completely. He’d actually seemed like he was opening up a bit with telling Paul about his hunting hobby.

Unless he was trying to gross Paul out and scare him off with the squirrel thing, which, based on what he knew of Daryl’s personality, was completely possible.

He imagined how hard it must be for Daryl after moving to a new state. He doubted the defensive man had made plenty of friends in such a short period of time. Although it was possible he already had friends who lived in Virginia. Regardless, Paul was still intrigued by the man. Maybe he’d have to push a bit, but he wanted to keep getting to know him. He didn’t have much to lose at this point anyway.

 

* * *

 

Unsurprisingly, Paul had trouble sleeping through the night. He woke multiple times, throat dry and scratchy, and his mind wouldn’t stop running with random memories from the past few days—Tara’s house party, pissing by the dumpster, Gregory’s mysterious meeting, the couple grossly fucking in the bathroom. He ended up going into the living area and doing several reps of sit-ups to wear himself out. After he returned to bed, his body felt a bit less antsy and he reclined back down against the pillows, forcing his eyes closed and willing himself to fall asleep.

When he woke next it was seven o’clock in the morning, meaning he’d slept around a grand total of three and a half hours. He tried to fall asleep once more, but the rising sun staved off his slumber. Paul reluctantly forced himself into a seated position and rested his head against the wall behind his bed.

He pulled his cell from his bedside table and unlocked the home screen. He had no new messages and decided to poke around a few different apps—he checked his Gmail, the news, Facebook. As he scrolled through his timeline filled with high school friends he forgot existed, his mind perked with a thought he was surprised he hadn’t considered earlier: Was Daryl on social media?

Personally, Paul only kept a Facebook and Twitter. Facebook was mostly reserved for closer friends as he kept it quite private, but he’d garnered a sizable amount of followers on Twitter even though his tweets were sporadic at best. Maybe he just made a lasting impression on people. He could hear Tara and Rosita teasing him for being _‘Mr. Popular_ ’ in the back of his mind, which just made him roll his eyes as he sat alone in bed.

While he doubted the older man had a Twitter, or even knew what the platform was, Facebook had seemed to catch on with even the elderly generations. He quickly typed the man’s full name into the search bar and watched as a line of results popped up below.

Daryl Dixon clearly wasn’t an uncommon name: countless results appeared, most being older men from several states in the south. He scrolled through each one, scrutinizing the profile pictures as they passed by. None looked like the mechanic. Giving up, Paul locked his phone and placed it back on the bedside table.

Thankfully, he wasn’t working until the late shift, so he had time to attempt to fall back asleep.

 

* * *

 

Paul spent most of his time over the next few days working overtime at the bar. The abundance of hours was great for his paycheck, but not so wonderful for his already exhausted state of mind. He hadn’t recovered from his lack of sleep over the weekend.

Come Thursday, he finally had a night off. As he exited The Hilltop around six and walked toward his car, his stomach grumbled loudly enough to be heard over the crunch of his shoes against the gravel below him. He considered making dinner at home, but the groceries he’d purchased last week were nearing their end. He’d already ordered delivery last night, but as his stomach grumbled again he felt distinctly in the mood for Chinese. Getting into his Civic, he decided he’d get takeout from _Sichuan Gourmet_ down the highway. It was the closest place from here and they had stellar pork dumplings. 

As he drove down the highway, Paul realized he would pass _Virginia Auto's_ exit on the opposite lane when he drove back home.

He hadn’t contacted Daryl since their conversation on Saturday. He’d been busy enough at work that he hadn’t thought much about it, but being so close to his repair shop caused his mind to buzz with anticipation as he considered several ideas.

If he reached out, it’d be the third time in a row that he initiated a conversation via text, and possibly the third time the man would stop responding to him. The most logical option would be to just wait and see if Daryl ever decided to contact him again.

Once parked, he entered the small restaurant and was faced with a line of customers. Unlike New York and D.C., the suburbs of Virginia didn’t have a plethora of Chinese takeout options—at least ones as tasty as _Sichuan Gourmet._ The tiny place easily crowded with customers on weekdays and weekends alike, most individuals stopping by to pick up takeout because they didn’t deliver. He’d forgotten how busy it could get, but he reluctantly took his place in line to order with the cashier.

After several uneventful minutes of waiting, Paul pulled out his phone and opened his conversation with Daryl. His thumbs hovered over the keypad, mind undecided as to whether or not he should reach out again. It was completely possible the man wasn’t even there, and was instead at home or out with others. As he’d said to Tara, however, his acquaintance with Daryl wasn’t serious, and despite his own cheeky flirting they were courting each other by any means. The mechanic seemed to be open to the idea of being friends, which was promising, but if he didn’t keep making the moves he doubted he’d ever find out if that were true.

Exhaling through his nose, Paul quickly typed a message:

> **Paul 6:21 PM**  
>  Hey, are you at your shop by any chance?

No response came and soon enough he was the next in line to order. If he wasn’t going to stop by the repair shop, then he wouldn't order enough food to accommodate both men. A moment later, the woman in front of him gave her thanks to the cashier and walked over to the chairs to wait for her food.

_Well, so much for that idea._

“Hello, take-out or sit-in?” asked the man at the cashier's desk.

Paul walked forward. “Hi, take-out please.”

“What can I get you?”

“I’ll have an order of the Pork Dumplings, the Spicy Eggplant, and an order of the Yu-Shiang Scallops.”

“Okay. Is that all?”

He was about to respond in confirmation when his phone buzzed in his right hand. He immediately looked down and opened the text. 

> **Daryl 6:28 PM**  
>  Yea, why

Paul smirked.

> **Paul 6:28 PM**  
>  I’m in the area.  
>  **Paul 6:28 PM**  
>  Do you like Chinese food?

After several seconds with no reply, Paul smiled up at the cashier. He didn’t want to be rude or hold up the other customers waiting to order. He might as well purchase additional plates just in case Daryl took up his offer. If not, then he’d have plenty of leftovers for tomorrow.

“I’m sorry about that. I’ll actually add a few more things—an order of the pork-fried rice, an order of Orange Chicken, and Lo Mein, please.”

He had no idea what Daryl liked, but those were pretty safe options for less adventurous eaters.

The cashier typed the additional meals into his register. “Anything else?”

“Uh, actually two waters? And some plates and plastic utensils if you have them.”

The man nodded. “That will be $42.50.”

Paul handed him his card and paid. After, he took a seat in one of the chairs pressed against the wall.  A moment later, he received two more texts:

> **Daryl 6:35 PM**  
>  I guess  
>  **Daryl 6:35 PM**  
>  Why you asking me
> 
> **Paul 6:35 PM**  
>  Well, I just ordered a bunch of take-out from Sichuan Garden. Have ever been here?
> 
> **Daryl 6:36 PM**  
>  No
> 
> **Paul 6:36 PM**  
>  It’s about five minutes from your shop. I could stop by with some if you haven’t eaten yet?

He paused before sending the next message.

> **Paul 6:36 PM**  
>  Consider it the thank you for my phone. Unless you’d prefer the Pina Coladas?
> 
> **Daryl 6:39 PM**  
>  I ain’t ever drinking that shit
> 
> **Paul 6:39 PM**  
>  So it that a yes to the Chinese…?

As several more minutes passed, Daryl didn’t answer. When the waitress brought out Paul’s order —a large brown bag which was housed in another plastic bag with a giant yellow smiley face on it—around seven o'clock, the mechanic still hadn’t responded. Sighing, Paul left the restaurant with his food in tow.

_Looks like I’ll have extra lunch tomorrow._

The highway traffic was sparse given that he’d missed the brunt of the evening commuters. He flew down the road pretty quickly, but found himself parked behind a few cars at a red light a few minutes later. As he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel [to the beat of the song playing on the radio](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F8wqmh3KybI), he realized the exit for  _Virginia Auto_  was only a few feet after this light. If he wanted to go that direction, he’d have to switch over to the the left lane now.

Paul halted his fingers on the wheel and exhaled. He looked up at the unmoving red light. As the light turned green and he prepared to drive in the straight lane, he inhaled deeply and bit his lip. Making sure there wasn’t anyone approaching behind him, he quickly flipped on his blinker and moved into the left-hand lane. He drove a few more feet and used his blinker again, veering off into the exit for Daryl’s shop.

 

* * *

 

The parking lot of _Virginia Auto_ was empty and chilly in the cool September evening. The place would seem abandoned if it weren’t for the soft light coming from the entrance door window. Unlike his first time at the shop, the sign hanging on the door firmly read “Closed.” Bag of Chinese food hoisted in one hand, Paul knocked against the wood and waited.

No response.

A few minutes later the door creaked open, revealing tapered blue eyes over pronounced bags. His black and blue had almost completely dissipated into yellowish hues. The scruff of his goatee had grown out a bit and his dark, greasy hair framed his cheeks in unkempt wisps. The taller man pushed the door open wider and stepped forward, straightening his broad shoulders defensively.

“What are you doin’ here,” he rasped, flicking his narrow eyes over Paul’s form.

Paul lifted the bag in his left hand and cocked his head. “You never answered. Thought I’d stop by just in case.”

“Yea well I ain’t hungry,” Daryl growled, turning around gruffly. Despite his uninviting words, the mechanic walked into the shop and left the front door wide open before Paul.

He wasn’t sure if that was an invitation or not, but he decided to walk into the small reception area anyway, closing the door behind him. The room was hazy with smoke and smelled distinctly of engine grease. A fizzled out butt on an ashtray atop the main counter indicated Daryl had been smoking before Paul arrived.

“You at least have to try one of the pork dumplings. They’re delicious,” Paul said, placing the large bag on top of the counter. He unpacked the white cartons, stacking them next to each other on the linoleum. After he finished, he grabbed the paper plates and plastic utensils and laid them down as well. He started opening the cartons one by one.

Daryl watched him with guarded eyes. “What’re you doin?’”

“Trying to find the dumplings,” Paul answered. He knew that wasn’t the response Daryl was looking for, but he continued anyway. “They don’t do the greatest job at labeling these things.”

Paul found the correct carton a second later. “Jackpot,” he breathed. He broke open one of the packets of chopsticks and used the utensils to plop one fried dumpling onto a paper plate. He poured a bit of the Hoison dipping sauce on the side and placed the chopsticks on top of the plate as well.

“Here, try it,” he said, extending an arm and handing the plate to Daryl. “You have to use the sauce too. It’s out of this world.”

The mechanic glanced down suspiciously at the dish before him. He looked back up at Paul and gnawed at the inside of his cheek. With a grunt, he accepted the offering, pulling it hesitantly from the shorter man’s grip.

Daryl stared at the plate for a brief moment before picking up the dumpling with his bare fingers, pressing it into the sauce, and pushing the whole thing into his mouth.

Paul raised his brows in surprise as he watched the man chew the entire dumpling. “You know, there are forks if you don't like to use chopsticks,” he said with amusement.

The older man didn’t respond, instead only wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and continuing to chew.

“Better than squirrel?”

Daryl glanced up at Paul and narrowed his eyes. “Shuttup,” he mumbled as he swallowed the remainder of his food.

Paul smirked. “But it’s good, right?”

The mechanic shrugged one shoulder. “Yea.”

Smiling, Paul waved a hand at the cartons lined up on the counter. “Go ahead, take more. There’s the dumplings, Yu-Shiang Scallops, Spicy Eggplant, Pork-Fried Rice, Lo Mein, and Orange Chicken.”

“Don’t know what half that means,” Daryl said, looking at the lineup below him.

Paul chuckled. “Try a bit of each, everything’s good. Feel free to stock up on the lo mein and rice if you don’t like the other stuff.”

Daryl gnawed on his cheek, plate in hand as he looked over his options. “Is Orange Chicken that one with them little seeds on top?” he asked.

“Oh, you mean Sesame Chicken? No, that’s a bit different. It’s similar though—if you like that dish you’ll definitely like this.”

The man glanced at him briefly and then returned to the boxes. He picked up one chopstick and began shoveling the chicken onto his plate with the item. After several pieces fell out, he moved on to the other options. He took a healthy portion of rice and lo mein and picked out one more dumpling, but when he arrived at the other two cartons he narrowed his eyes, peeking suspiciously into the boxes.

“They’re delicious, I promise. Especially the scallops,” Paul said.

“Ain’t ever had one.”

The younger man gave a low whistle. “Man, you’re missing out.”

Daryl pushed one out onto his plate and eyed it hesitantly. He then moved on to the eggplant and did the same. After, his plate was nearly full.

“Here,” Paul said, walking forward to pick up a plastic utensil packet and hand it to Daryl. “Fork’s inside.”

The man accepted the container. “Thanks,” he mumbled before sitting down on the lawn chair against the wall with his plate.

Paul filled his own dish and opened another pair of chopsticks. He paused, looking around and realizing there were no other seats in the room. Daryl stared at him for a moment before awkwardly shifting in his chair, beginning to sit up. “You wanna…?”

“No, that’s okay. You sit,” Paul answered honestly. He placed his plate on the countertop and then hoisted himself up, sitting on the ledge and letting his legs hang free. “I’m fine here.”

Daryl eyed him momentarily and then returned to his food, shoveling a large forkful of lo mein into his mouth. The amount proved too cumbersome to consume in one bite and strings of noodles hung from his lips as he attempted to gobble the entire thing. It took one more gulp to finish the helping completely, a single noodle slurping into his lips as he swallowed. Paul watched the whole thing with amused brows.

“Thought you weren’t hungry,” Paul said before taking his plate and eating a scallop with his chopsticks.

The mechanic shot him annoyed look but didn’t respond, returning instead to his meal and forking two pieces of orange chicken into his mouth.

Paul smirked and rolled his eyes.

“So how’s your week been?” the younger man asked after a minute of silent eating between them.

Daryl swallowed and shrugged both shoulders. He was wearing the same dark, long-sleeved button down as the first night they met as well as his leather vest. “Fine.”

“Any new clients?”

The mechanic shrugged casually. He stuck his fork into another piece of chicken.

Paul decided to change the subject. “What about hunting? Go out at all?”

After he swallowed the item, Daryl licked his lips. “Nah. Haven’t in a few weeks.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” Paul asked before taking a bite of his Spicy Eggplant.

Daryl shifted, eyes deflecting to the floor. “Been busy.”

Silence passed between them once more as they both chewed and swallowed their meals. Paul knew it would take some effort to keep the conversation moving, but he decided to stay with the hunting topic since Daryl seemed somewhat responsive.

“So, are you one of those guys who actually hunts turkey for Thanksgiving dinner?” Paul teased, breaking the quiet.

As the words left his mouth, Paul realized he hadn’t considered the possibility that Daryl had his own family. He never noticed a ring on his finger, but the man was old enough where most would assume he’d either been married or had children. Still, the man didn’t exactly seem the type longing to get home to the wife, two kids, and labrador retriever.

“Nah,” the mechanic rasped. “Don’t do that whole thing.”

Paul chewed a few noodles and then swallowed. He raised a brow. “The hunting or the holiday?”

“Both.”

The younger man lowered his plate to his thighs, brows raised. “Really? So you’ve never had turkey, stuffing, the works?”

“At a friend’s once,” Daryl replied. “Not with family.”

“Do you have a family?” Paul asked after a beat, making the most of the opportunity. When faced with a strange look from the man across from him, he clarified: “Kids, I mean?”

Daryl narrowed his eyes. “Nah.”

“Ever been married?”

“No…why, have you?” the man quipped, clearly suspicious of Paul’s line of questioning.

Paul gave a sarcastic laugh. “No, definitely not. It’s only been legal here for me for about two years anyway.”

Referencing gay marriage legality wasn’t exactly the way he would have preferred to make Daryl aware of his sexuality, but he couldn’t do much about it now.

Daryl’s blue eyes studied him with slight confusion. Paul could see when the realization finally washed over the man’s face because he flicked his eyes away awkwardly, landing them on his nearly-finished plate. If the man had any issue with Paul’s admission he didn’t say so—instead, he returned to his fork and began pushing around rice into the sauce left over from the Orange Chicken.

“Sorry,” came the older man’s voice after a moment.

Paul raised his brows and looked at Daryl, who was still staring down at his plate. He wasn’t exactly sure what the man meant, but he hoped it wasn’t what his mind drifted to first.

“Sorry that I’m gay…?” Paul asked, brows furrowing and voice tightening.

The man shot his eyes back up to meet Paul’s. He narrowed them defensively. “No, that ain’t what I meant. Sorry that you couldn’t get married or whatever—I don’t know,” he rasped, deflecting by scooping another forkful of rice into his mouth.

Paul felt strangely relieved. He never sensed Daryl was a malicious person, but growing up in Georgia in what must have been the seventies most likely didn’t provide an environment that bred the most liberal or open-minded ideals. Even in the off chance Daryl actually liked men himself, it was entirely possible that harbored internalized homophobia. Paul felt slightly guilty that his mind jumped to the worst conclusion about the man’s statement, though. In his own defense, it wouldn’t be the first time a straight male friend distanced themselves after learning he was gay.

Placing his chopsticks down on his plate, he sighed. “That’s not your fault. I didn’t have anyone I planned on marrying anyway. I appreciate the sentiment, though.”

Daryl stared at him as he chewed and swallowed. He nodded briefly.

He hadn’t meant for the subject to get so serious, so he pointed one chopstick toward Daryl’s plate. “You haven’t eaten your eggplant.”

The mechanic blinked, clearly not expecting the sudden change in topic. He looked down to where Paul was referencing.

“Looks like a slug,” he rasped.

The smaller man snorted, lips parting in an amused smile on their own accord. “What are you talking about? It does not.”

Paul could have been mistaken, but he thought he noticed a quirk of the man’s own lips. “Fuckin’ does,” he said, pushing it slightly with his fork.

“You eat squirrel guts but you won’t eat a slice of Spicy Eggplant? I’m disappointed in you, Dixon,” he teased.

The man continued to poke at it with his utensil.

“What, are you afraid of it?” Paul challenged with a smirk.

The biker narrowed his eyes at the younger man sitting above him. After chewing on the inside of cheek, he picked up the entire piece of eggplant with his bare fingers and dropped it inside his mouth.

Paul scrunched his face at Daryl’s crude ingestion of the food. “Wow.”

“Not bad,” Daryl said, mouth full as he chewed.

Paul laughed. “You’re gross.”

Daryl swallowed and shrugged.

Shaking his head, Paul chuckled and began finish off the rest of his own meal.

 

* * *

 

The two men continued to chat casually over the next hour. Daryl actually went back for a second helping of food—even the eggplant—much to Paul’s surprise. Despite his earlier claim that he wasn’t hungry, the man certainly had an appetite.

As it approached nine o’clock and several cartons neared their end, Paul slid from the countertop. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome and their conversation had winded down to a natural conclusion.

“Well, thanks for dinner,” he said, tucking his long hair behind one ear.

Daryl gave him a look. “You brought the food,” he rasped, confused.

Paul smirked. “Yes, but you provided the locale and the company, which often is just as important.”

The mechanic scoffed.

The shorter man turned his body toward the countertop and began cleaning up his dirty plate and utensils. “You want the rest of these?” Paul asked, looking back at Daryl and pointing to the cartons.

Daryl shook his head. “Ain’t got anywhere to put ‘em.”

“What, is your fridge full with squirrel carcasses?” Paul asked, brow quirked in amusement.

The man diverted his eyes awkwardly, and for a second Paul thought he might be blushing. The expression was short-lived because a minute later Daryl stood, eyes narrowed. “Nah, just ain’t got no room.”

“Okay, okay,” Paul said. “More for me. Not complaining.”

He packed up the cartons and placed them inside the brown bag. After all were stacked, he pulled the food from the counter and held it in his left hand.

Daryl leaned against the wall watching him, chewing on his inner lip.

Breathing in, Paul smiled softly. “This was fun.”

The taller man shifted his shoulders, adjusting his position, but otherwise stayed silent.

“As you can see, there are many perks of being friends with me,” Paul continued. “Free booze, free dinner…”

Daryl snorted.

“Anyway—let’s hang again?”

The mechanic looked away. He shrugged one shoulder.

“I’ll take that as a _'sure,'"_  Paul smirked as he walked toward the front door. “Night, Daryl.”

The last thing he saw before turning around were narrow blue eyes staring at him, nearly hidden behind straggly bangs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love comments, they help me write faster. :)


	7. Chapter 7

Paul clutched two highball glasses and pulled them from the clean stack behind the bar. After setting both heads up in the working area, he grabbed a bottle of Captain Morgan’s, picked up the Coke soda gun, and filled the glasses with both just below their brims. He dropped a straw into each and then put two napkins on the wooden bar surface above.

“That’ll be ten,” Paul said, lifting the finished drinks and placing both atop the napkins.

The customer—a blonde, curly-haired young woman who was hanging out with a particularly rowdy group in the back—nodded and pulled up her purse from where it hung against her waist. As she fumbled to unzip the item in the dim light, Paul felt his cell buzz in his pocket.

Normally he avoided checking his phone while serving customers, but given how long the woman was taking to fish a bill from her overstuffed wallet, Paul figured he could spare a second to see who was texting him. It was still relatively early and the bulk of the Friday night crowd hadn’t arrived yet, so it wasn’t like anyone else was on line waiting for his service anyway.

Paul pulled his phone from his back pocket, screen glowing in the hazy bar light. _1 new message from Daryl._

He felt an involuntary smirk pass his lips.

After Paul had returned home from yesterday’s impromptu dinner, he’d felt strangely giddy. Apart from the whole gay marriage discussion, he thought the night had went pretty well. Daryl even toned down his suspicious, narrow glares toward the end. Maybe it was possible the man wasn’t so averse to the idea of being his friend.

Paul had waited until this afternoon to text Daryl, instead of four o’clock in the morning like the last time they’d seen each other. As he was eating the Chinese leftovers for lunch, he'd decided to snap a picture of his plate of eggplant and sent it with the caption "your favorite" and a winking face. He wasn't usually an emoji user, but he felt it were appropriate in this case.

The mechanic hadn’t answered since then, and it’d been a few hours since he first started his shift at the bar. He was beginning to think the man wouldn’t answer. Now that he had, he couldn’t help but feel a bit excited to read his response.

Before he could, however, the woman finally managed to pull a bill from her wallet, extending the money toward the bartender. Paul stuffed his phone back into his pocket before stepping forward and accepting  the cash. After noticing it was a twenty, he moved to get change from the register. He returned the remaining bills to the curly-haired woman, who then left one on the bar as a tip. She sent Paul a polite smile before grabbing both Rum and Coke’s and waking off toward her friends.

Once she was gone, Paul pulled his phone from his pocket quickly and unlocked it, tapping on the Messages app. He opened his and Daryl’s conversation.

> **Daryl 8:52 PM**  
>  Damn slugs is what that was

Paul chuckled to himself and typed out a quick response.

> **Paul 8:52 PM**  
>  Yet you ate them…quite a few from what I remember
> 
> **Daryl 8:53 PM**  
>  Was hungry that’s all
> 
> **Paul 8:53 PM**  
>  Keep telling yourself that, Dixon…
> 
> **Daryl 8:54 PM**  
>  Fine. Ain’t that bad I guess

After a minute of starting and deleting several replies, Paul finally sent his next message.

> **Paul 8:55 PM**  
>  Are you free at all on Sunday?

When it seemed like a response wasn’t coming immediately after several minutes of silence, Paul distracted himself by starting to gather empty glasses from the bar where customers left them. As much as he tried to deny it, he felt a little nervous after sending that text. He wasn’t completely sure why, however. Last night he’d already hinted at hanging again and Daryl didn’t have a completely negative response.

In the back of his mind, Paul knew the real reason for the anxious feelings in his stomach. Daryl knew he was gay now. The biker might fear that Paul was trying to ask him out on a date and withdraw altogether. Not that Paul would be opposed to doing so with Daryl, but he still had no indication that the man liked men altogether and didn’t want to push him even if he did. He was just glad the mechanic seemed to be warming up to him at all.

As he lined dirty cups behind the bar, his phone buzzed again in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the message.

> **Daryl 9:04 PM**  
>  Why?

“Excuse me?”

Paul looked up, startled by the voice before him. A man was standing at the bar, mustached face stern and serious. The bartender quickly pocketed his phone and stepped forward, leaning both hands against the edge of the bar.

“Hi, sorry about that. What can I get you?”

The man rubbed his nose with one hand and shifted closer. “Gregory here?”

Paul knit his brows for a moment, taken back by the man’s seemingly non-sequitur question. Gregory never had any visitors while at work, and Paul didn’t know any of his friends. It only took him another second before his memory caught up, placing the man’s voice. This was the guy from the back alley.

“Oh, are you a friend?” Paul asked, feigning innocent interest.

The man looked as if he wanted to roll his eyes, but he stayed relatively unmoved. “Yeah…we’re friends.”

Despite the man’s words, his body language both in the alley the other night and now suggested otherwise. Paul’s best chance at learning more was to play along.

“Well, he’s not in today unfortunately,” Paul sighed, doing his best to play dumb, “But is there anything I can help you with?”

Alley man tightened his jaw, visibly annoyed. After a moment he gave a close-lipped smile, obviously a half-assed attempt at obscuring his temper. “No, forget it,” the man answered. “I’ll talk to him another time.”

“I can leave him a message for you,” Paul started, trying to lure the man back in. “What’s your name?”

The mustached man stepped back from the bar, fake smile on view once more. He cocked his head toward the exit. “I’m in a rush, but thanks anyway.”

A moment later the man was gone.

Paul inhaled, staring at the front door where the mysterious visitor had just left. He didn’t have a good feeling about this at all. Given how shady the past two meetings Paul had noticed seemed, it was strange that the man would come into the bar and directly ask for Gregory. He must be pretty desperate to get in touch with him. Perhaps the mustached man needed to meet his boss outside of their regularly scheduled “appointments.”

His mind ran through different explanations—most of them nefarious given the situation. The small sliver of conversation he was able to make out from last time suggested Gregory owed someone something. Probably money.

Technically all of this still could be personal business of Gregory’s, but if his boss was stupid enough to conduct his dealings at the bar this was a legitimate concern for Paul. Especially now that this strange guy knew his face.

Kal walked behind the bar then, empty bin in hand so he could begin bussing back the dirty, empty glasses Paul had pulled.

“Hey,” he greeted Paul with a slight nod. He began stacking glasses inside the bin.

“Hey,” Paul returned. After a moment, he shifted to face his coworker. “Actually, have you ever seen one of Gregory’s friends? Pretty tall, but shorter than him, dark mustache?”

Kal gave him a look. “Didn’t realize Gregory had friends.”

“Guessing that’s a no?”

“No, no idea who that is. Why?” he asked, confused.

“No reason. He just stopped by asking for him, wasn't sure who he was.”

“Beats me,” Kal said before finishing his stack of glasses and walking out of the bar area, bin in tow.

Before Paul could continue processing what had just happened, a group of college kids walked into the bar, crowding toward one end to get drinks. Sighing, the bartender walked down the space to begin serving them.

 

* * *

 

Paul didn't return home that night until around two in the morning. He left immediately after last call—thankfully he wasn’t scheduled to close with Kal. The night had been non-stop busy after it hit nine-thirty, and he’d barely had an opportunity to think let alone text. He hadn’t forgotten about Daryl’s message, but the strange appearance by Gregory’s “friend” and the swarm of customers distracted him from thinking about it for a while. He felt oddly buzzed despite the late hour, so he slumped on the couch and pulled out his phone from his pocket.

Paul reread Daryl’s last text and exhaled. His first thought was to apologize for the late message, but he considered not addressing it since the man in question wasn’t necessarily the most timely texter himself. Paul expected that though, with him. Ultimately, he went with his original idea and sent two texts, not caring if he embarrassed himself or that he was once again sending Daryl messages at random hours of the morning.

> **Paul 2:12 AM**  
>  Hey, sorry for taking so long to respond. Bad night at work  
>  **Paul 2:12 AM**  
>  And I was just wondering if you’d want to hang out or something. No pressure.

Several minutes passed and Paul got comfortable on the couch, resting one socked foot on top of the coffee table. He read a few articles on his phone before a notification flashed on his screen indicating Daryl’s response.

> **Daryl 2:23 AM**  
>  You ok?

Paul felt his lips quirk up slightly in a smile.

> **Paul 2:23 AM**  
>  Yeah I’m fine, just a busy day. Thanks for asking though
> 
> **Daryl 2:24 AM**  
>  Ok

Sighing, Paul contemplated how to respond to that one. He’d dealt with one-word texters before, but with Daryl it was a whole new arena of confusion. Thankfully he didn’t need to think much longer because another message lit up his phone a few minutes later.

> **Daryl 2:27 AM**  
>  Don’t you got better things to do

Disappointment washed over Paul as he wondered if this was Daryl’s way of denying him. He remembered how he had jumped to conclusions about the mechanic’s statement in the shop last night, so he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and try one last attempt.

> **Paul 2:28 AM**  
>  Better than you? Nonsense.  
>  **Paul 2:28 AM**  
>  In all seriousness, no big deal if you can’t. I have Sunday off if you’re free and wanted to do something though

Minutes passed. Then:

> **Daryl 2:33 AM**  
>  Like what?

_Okay, not the worst response in the world._

Paul contemplated what he could recommend them doing. He didn’t want to come on too strong and scare the guy off. Given how ravenously the man had eaten last night, he figured the guy would enjoy another meal.

> **Paul 2:34 AM**  
>  Well there’s this tiny diner on the highway that has really good breakfast if you’re interested. I can bring you some at your shop again if that’s easier for you.
> 
> **Daryl 2:35 AM**  
>  Man you dont have to keep buying me food

Paul exhaled as he read the text. He knew Daryl didn't appreciate people treating him like a "charity case" as he'd described it a few weeks ago, and perhaps the notion of Paul paying was a little too date-like. He tapped out the best reply he could think of to alleviate both possible scenarios.

> **Paul 2:36 AM**  
>  Hey, technically I only bought you food once. The alcohol came out of my boss’ budget, so a win-win situation there  
>  **Paul 2:36 AM**  
>  As I see it, we’re equal now that I thanked you properly. We can split the bill like normal friends.

_Friends._ Paul could hear Daryl scoffing at the word. They were closer to being friendly acquaintances at this point really, but it was just easier to use a simpler term. Compared to how their relationship first started, Paul wasn’t complaining.

> **Daryl 2:38 AM**  
>  Where is this place?
> 
> **Paul 2:39 AM**  
>  Two lights past your shop actually. I can get you the exact address.
> 
> **Daryl 2:40 AM**  
>  Ain’t far then?
> 
> **Paul 2:40 AM**  
>  No not all, probably less than ten minutes. Would you like to just meet there?
> 
> **Daryl 2:41 AM**  
>  Fine
> 
> **Paul 2:41 AM**  
>  Okay great. 11 AM sound okay?
> 
> **Daryl 2:41 AM**  
>  That’s fine
> 
> **Paul 2:41 AM**  
>  Okay. See you then.

After locking his phone with a click, Paul lowered the item to his side and exhaled. He equally nervous and giddy. While Daryl’s shrug last night was far from a straight-up denial, part of Paul didn’t expect the man to actually accept his offer. Maybe he was really making a new friend after all.

 

* * *

 

“You’re _what?”_

“It’s just breakfast, Tara.”

“Yeah, but didn’t you say you had dinner the other night? So this is your second date.”

Paul rolled his eyes, putting his phone on speaker as he pulled on his jeans. “That wasn’t a date. Neither is this.”

“Fine. Well, at least he wants to be friends with you.”

“That’s debatable.”

He heard his friend laugh into her phone. “Jesus, if he didn’t like you he wouldn’t have said yes.”

“He’s alone here, I think. Maybe he’s bored. Or desperate.”

“Desperate to be your friend? I mean who isn’t.”

Paul scoffed. “That’s not true at all.”

“Yea, yea. Well just let me know how it goes.”

“Will do, talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

Paul pushed the end call button and left his phone on his bed. He walked into the bathroom, stopping in front of the mirror to assess the way he looked. The weather had dropped to the mid-to-low sixties now that it was late September, so he’d opted for a quarter-sleeved henley and jeans. He thought a jacket would be too warm over the longer sleeved shirt, so he’d decided against wearing anything over it. His hair was long against his clavicles and his beard was trimmed and clean. There were slight dark circles under his eyes from his late Saturday night shift, but they weren’t horrible. He brushed through his hair with his brush one more time, attempting to tame some of his more wily strands in the back.

He wasn’t sure why he cared that much. As he’d said to Tara, this wasn’t a date or anything.

After he finished in the bathroom, he checked the time on his phone. Given that he was supposed to meet Daryl at the place at 11, he should probably leave soon.

He picked up his wallet from his bedside table and pushed it into the back pocket of his jeans. After grabbing his keys from the countertop in the kitchen, he slipped on his Vans and walked out the door, locking it behind him.

 

* * *

 

 _Jan’s_ was a tiny, classic diner frequented mostly by travelers needing a pit stop on the highway. Every time Paul had visited the place it wasn’t incredibly busy, and today was no different. The parking lot was nearly empty and when he walked into the restaurant only a few tables were taken.

The inside had a traditional diner flair—red booths lined the room, old, mismatched pictures were framed across the walls, and a neon clock hung behind the bar area. Given that he didn’t see a motorcycle in the parking lot, Paul assumed Daryl hadn’t arrived yet. He figured he would get a seat anyway while he waited.

Paul walked toward the hostess and smiled. “Hi, two please.”

The woman nodded and pulled two menus from the shelf below her. “This way.”

She led Paul to a booth near the back against the wall and placed both menus on the table before walking off. Although he remembered the service wasn’t phenomenal—at least by Southern standards, in New York he was used to such attitudes—the food was good enough to make up for it. He didn’t think Daryl would mind.

Paul sat in the booth, checking his phone intermittently between sips of the water the waitress had brought over several minutes ago. It was only ten minutes after eleven, so Daryl was probably just running late.

As several more minutes passed, Paul began feeling a bit nervous. Maybe he should text Daryl and see where he was. He didn’t want to come across as too overbearing, though.

“You ready to order?” the waitress asked. She was an older woman with dyed red hair and penciled-in eyebrows. She looked like she wanted to be anywhere but here right now. He’d had similar days at the bar himself.

“Sorry,” Paul apologized, “I’m waiting for a friend.”

As the words left his mouth, he heard a motorcycle approach in the distance. He looked from the waitress to the windows ahead and saw Daryl’s bike pull into the parking lot.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in, a soft smile gracing his lips.

“Uh, well I think he’s here actually,” Paul said, cocking his head to get a better look out the window.

The woman nodded at him with little interest. “Alright. I’ll come back in a few minutes.”

“Thanks,” Paul answered.

A few seconds later the diner door swung open, revealing none other than Daryl Dixon. He was dressed in his usual attire, broad shoulders taught underneath his dark shirt and vest. His brown hair was a bit wavier than usual toward the ends, and the sight made something tighten in Paul’s chest.

He ignored the feeling and gave a close lipped smile, raising his hand briefly to get Daryl’s attention. The biker noticed him immediately and straightened. He chewed on the inside of his cheek awkwardly before walking down the aisle toward the booth.

Paul looked up at him as he approached his seat. “Hey.”

Daryl nodded at him and sat down on the opposite of the booth. “Sorry m’ late.”

“Oh, no problem. I haven’t been here long.”

Daryl looked down at the menu in front of him and opened the first laminated page. Paul could sense his awkwardness, so he attempted to break the ice.

“How are you?” he asked.

The biker looked up from the menu to meet the younger man’s eyes. He shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

Paul nodded, taking a sip of his water. He glanced down at his own menu and opened it as well. “Man, I’m freaking starving.”

He thought he heard Daryl snort, so he looked up. The biker was flipping to another page in the menu.

“What’s good?” Daryl rasped, eyes scanning the variety of options below him.

“Well,” Paul breathed, “I’m partial to the pancakes, but the eggs and home fries are delicious too. Whenever I can’t decide I get the Number Seven.”

Daryl looked up at him. “What’s that?”

“It gives you one pancake, sausage, home fries, and two eggs. I think toast too.”

“Sounds like a damn heart attack.”

“Pretty much everything here is cooked in bacon grease, so that’s a fair characterization,” Paul smirked. “I always run several miles at the gym the next day after eating here.”

A minute later, the red-haired waitress returned. She looked at Paul and then at Daryl, then back at Paul. “Y’all gonna order?”

“You ready?” Paul asked, looking at the man across from him.

“Yea, uh,” Daryl started, looking down at the menu and pointing one finger to an item on the left side. “Can I get this Number Seven?”

“Okay,” the waitress said, scribbling onto her small notepad. “And for you?”

Paul looked up at the woman. “I’ll have the same.”

The woman made a quick line on the notepad. “Any other drinks?”

“I’m okay with water, thanks,” Paul answered.

“You want anything?” the waitress asked Daryl.

“Nah.”

The woman made her final notes and grabbed the menus before walking off toward the kitchen. Once she was gone, the awkward silence from earlier began to pass between them. After several moments, Paul cleared his throat.

“So,” Paul started, “How was your day yesterday?”

Daryl had his elbows bent atop the table and was playing with his fingers. “Alright. There was an accident up the road, m’working on one of the cars.”

Paul raised his brows. “Oh wow, was everyone okay?”

“Yea, just a fender bender. Some truck rear-ended this guy’s mini-van. Tow service brought the van to my place, but the guy showed up later and he looked fine.”

“Is it a lot of work for you?”

The biker shrugged. “Not really.”

“So not as bad as my _piece of shit_ , then?” Paul teased.

Daryl’s lips quirked ever-so-slightly in amusement. Paul felt his chest tighten again. His mind wondered what he looked like when he actually smiled. If that was something the older man was actually capable of doing.

“Nah, definitely not as shitty as that,” Daryl rasped.

Paul smirked. “So rude.”

“You’re the one who said it.”

After several moments of silence, Paul changed the subject.

“Yesterday was pretty busy for me too. I think more people are flocking to the bar earlier with the colder weather starting.”

Daryl chewed on his lip. “You said it was bad the other night?”

Paul remembered his text to Daryl after his shift on Friday. “Yeah, super busy that night. It was weird too, though.”

“Why’s that?”

Exhaling, Paul reclined against the booth cushion. He hadn’t talked to anyone about Gregory’s mysterious dealings, but he figured Daryl was removed enough from the situation that he might be able to provide an objective viewpoint.

“Well, I’m pretty sure my boss is up to something. Not sure what exactly just yet, but I’m suspicious.”

“Like somethin’ bad?”

Paul sighed, leaning forward again and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. I saw him two separate times talking to a strange man in the alley behind the bar. Their body language seemed hostile. One time I saw Gregory hand the other guy an envelope, and the next time the guy acted like Gregory owed someone something.”

“Then on Friday night that same guy from the alley showed up at the bar,” Paul continued. “He asked me where Gregory was, but it was his day off. I tried to fish for answers but he just left.”

Daryl shifted, watching Paul as he spoke.

“I don’t understand why he’d risk meeting this person at the bar. Everything feels off.”

“You think he owes this guy money?” Daryl asked.

“Probably. Not sure what else it could be. Maybe it’s gambling related. I never pegged Gregory as the druggie type, but maybe this guy is his dealer.”

Daryl’s jaw tightened slightly and he looked away, eyes settling on his half-finished glass of water. Paul sensed the man felt uncomfortable and he immediately regretted opening up with so much information so quickly. He was about to apologize when the man spoke.

“Or your boss is.”

Paul raised his brows. Gregory could be an asshole, but drug dealer wasn’t something he ever had in mind. “You think?”

Daryl looked back up at him and began chewing on the inside of his cheek. He exhaled and began fidgeting with his hands again, eyes dropping down to the table. “Maybe. Could be in the business.”

The man flicked his eyes briefly at Paul before continuing. “M’brother dealt for a long time. Sometimes when he wouldn’t have product, clients would come at him, threaten to kill him and shit, even at work. Some kind of tactic I guess.”

Suddenly Paul wasn’t interested in Gregory or his dealings anymore.

“You witnessed all of that?” he asked with concern.

Daryl stayed quiet and then shrugged. “Yea. We used’ta own a shop together outside Atlanta.”

“Is your brother still there?” he asked softly. “At the shop in Georgia?”

The biker was silent. Then, “Nah. He’s dead.”

Paul’s stomach dropped and he felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment. He didn’t mean for the conversation to turn in such a direction, and now he felt horrible for causing the man to talk about something so personal and tragic.

Daryl was now finishing off his glass of water, obviously trying to stave off the awkward tension.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Paul said softly.

The biker placed the cup on the table and met Paul’s eyes briefly. “S’fine. Been over a year now.”

Paul nodded. “How’d it happen?”

“OD’ed. Probably never had enough product because he was usin’ it all himself, the idiot.”

“None of us are perfect,” Paul murmured, big eyes meeting Daryl’s own. “I’m really sorry that happened.”

Silence hovered in the space between them. The man’s tone suggested he was angry at his brother for what he’d done, but Paul could tell that was just a facade. Behind his eyes Paul sensed hurt and sadness. After a few seconds, Daryl finally glanced away. He looked younger than he was in that moment, and Paul felt the overwhelming urge to run his hand through his soft, wavy hair.

“Do you miss being in Georgia?” Paul said softly, changing the subject. Both for Daryl’s sake and his own.

Daryl looked up at him like he wasn’t expecting Paul to speak so soon. He shrugged. “Don’t miss the place, but some people, yeah.”

“Friends?”

Daryl nodded, biting the skin on the side of his right thumb.

Paul gave a small smile. “What are they like?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I’m just interested.”

Daryl breathed in and leaned back against the cushion. “My friend Carol’s a baker. Rick’s the Sheriff of the town I used to work in. His wife Michonne’s a detective.”

“Really?” Paul asked, interest piqued. “How’d you meet those two?”

Daryl sighed. “Used’ta tow cars in accidents back to the repair shop. Met Rick when he was just a cop before his promotion. Michonne was in the narcotics unit. She was investigating Merle—my uh, my brother.”

 _Merle_ , Paul repeated internally, keeping the name safe in his memory.

Paul raised his brows. “Was that difficult? Being friends with them with everything happening with your brother?”

“Weren’t friends till things were endin’ really. They uh, they didn’t get married until later either.”

“So did they meet through you, then?” Paul asked, trying to avoid the subject of his brother given how uncomfortable Daryl seemed earlier.

“Yea, I guess.”

Paul smirked. “Look at you, Mr. Matchmaker.”

Daryl snorted and rolled his eyes. “Nah, weren’t like that.”

Paul chuckled. “Well, my good friend Tara is actually training to become a cop. Seems like we’ve got that in common.”

The biker studied him and nodded.

At that moment, the red-haired waitress walked over, two large plates in hand.

“Two Number Sevens,” she said, placing each in front of Daryl and Paul. She walked off afterward.

Paul looked down at the large plate—an oversized pancake took up most of the room, but a large portion of home fries spilled on top in one corner. Two eggs easy-over sat in the remaining space along with one breakfast sausage. The toast was piled above of the other edge of the pancake.

“I always forget how huge this is, I don’t know where to start,” he mused.

Daryl was already squirting a generous amount of ketchup in a space he’d cleared out near his home fries.

“Ketchup fan?” Paul asked with amusement.

Daryl took a healthy forkful of home fries, pushed it into the ketchup, and engulfed it with one bite. “S’that a prob’lm?” he mumbled as he chewed.

Paul smiled. “Nope. Just save some for me. No one likes a ketchup hog.”

Daryl rolled his eyes and pushed the Heinz container toward Paul.

The younger man picked it up with a smirk and squeezed some onto his own plate. Before he dug into his own food, he watched Daryl. The man didn’t even look up once as he shoveled pieces of egg and pancake into his mouth. After Thursday night Paul just assumed the man enjoyed a good meal, but maybe he wasn’t eating much at all. Paul felt his chest tighten once again.

He’d been intrigued by Daryl Dixon since the minute they met. He liked the guy, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t attracted to him. But now, as he watched the man he just learned lost a brother, brown hair all soft and straggly against his cheekbones, he felt a foreign feeling rise within him. It made him feel anxious and vaguely nauseous.

Paul figured it was just the hunger and began eating his eggs to avoid thinking about it.

 

* * *

 

The next week passed by quickly. Paul spent most of his time working, but also managed to go to two of his martial arts classes and start a new book. Tara had been busy getting ready for her physical exam, so he didn’t get to talk with her much. He hadn’t even told her about everything that happened at breakfast with Daryl, just that it “went well.”

Since their breakfast, he’d been texting Daryl pretty regularly. At least, more regularly than before: they exchanged a few messages every day instead of going several days at a time without speaking to each other. Paul continued to initiate their conversations and the mechanic still wasn’t great at responding in a timely manner, but the man responded nonetheless. They talked mostly about how their days had been, work, and other random, casual topics that Paul felt like bringing up.

October was already a few days in swing when the following Thursday came about. After his shift at the bar, Paul found himself craving takeout again. He hadn’t heard from Daryl all day, and it’d been over a week since he’d seen him at the diner now. Paul wondered if the man would be up for another quick meal at his shop.

He tapped a quick text into his phone and sent it.

> **Paul 6:03 PM**  
>  Hey, I’m thinking of picking up takeout from this barbecue restaurant. You busy?

Several minutes passed and Paul decided to drive to the place anyway. He'd go by the same formula as last time: he’d order plenty of food for both of them, but if he wasn’t there he’d just take the remainder home for leftovers.

He called the restaurant and ordered the dishes he thought Daryl would enjoy—ribs, pulled pork, baked beans, cole slaw, mac and cheese, and cornbread—so that it’d be ready for pickup once he arrived. Around six thirty he reached the restaurant and retrieved his order. As he walked back out into the parking lot with the large plastic bag in hand, he felt his pocket buzz.

> **Daryl 6:37 PM**  
>  Finishing up some work
> 
> **Paul 6:38 PM**  
>  I was thinking of just stopping by the shop anyway, if that’s okay?
> 
> **Daryl 6:40 PM**  
>  Ok  
>  **Daryl 6:41 PM**  
>  How much do I owe you?
> 
> **Paul 6:42 PM**  
>  Don’t worry about it. You can pick up the tab next time we get food.

Paul reached his car and pocketed his phone. He slipped inside his sedan and turned on the ignition, pulling out of the lot and making his way to Daryl’s shop.

He arrived at _Virginia Auto_ about twenty minutes later. Daryl must have heard his car approaching because the man opened the front door and hovered outside it as Paul locked his sedan and began walking over with the bag of food.

“Could’a said you’d be here so quick,” Daryl rasped.

Paul raised a brow. Although the man’s texts suggested he was totally cool with Paul stopping by, he now seemed a bit on edge. Daryl was right though—he didn’t give any time frame and that was his fault.

“Sorry,” he smiled bashfully. “My hunger overrode my thought processing.” He lifted the bag. “Lots of food here to fix that, though.”

Daryl breathed through his nose and sighed before turning around and opening the door to the shop. Paul followed inside.

The place was a bit messier than usual—dirty bath towels were strewn across the countertop, cardboard boxes and other garbage were piled in one corner, and he thought he saw empty bottles of beer lined against the wooden molding at the bottom of the far wall. Daryl noticed Paul’s wandering eyes and quickly grabbed the towels and some of the cardboard boxes.

“Sorry,” the man muttered. Paul thought his cheeks looked a tint redder.

“No worries at all,” Paul said, trying to alleviate some of the man’s embarrassment. “You should see my apartment. My sink is literally overflowing.”

Daryl snorted but didn’t meet Paul’s eyes as he picked up a few more pieces of garbage with his left hand. “Gonna throw this out back,” he mumbled before walking straight out the front door.

Paul felt guilty now for showing up without letting Daryl know when he’d arrive. Clearly the man wasn’t prepared for guests or clients. He couldn’t help but wonder why he had so much garbage in the shop, or what the whole bath towel thing was all about. He figured the man must have spent a lot of time at the shop this week and could have already eaten a few meals here. Maybe the towels were just from cleaning himself off from greasy vehicles.

Now that the countertop was cleared, Paul set the plastic bag atop the surface. The door to the garage area was open and he noticed the same blue truck that was there several weeks ago. It didn’t look any different from last time—maybe this was Daryl's own car and not a client’s?

He wasn’t sure what came over him, but his curiosity spurred his decision to walk into the garage and get a closer look at the truck. It was an older Chevy pickup. Paul noticed the hatch of the cargo bed was open and he stepped closer to inspect it. That’s when he noticed there was some kind of cloth protruding from the end.

Walking around the vehicle, he got a full view of the back of the truck: a comforter and sheets were piled in the cargo bed, one pillow tossed haphazardly in the middle of the array of fabric. His stomach sunk.

_Has Daryl been sleeping here?_

Maybe the mechanic had been so busy that it wasn’t worth traveling all the way home. Sometimes he wished he had a room at the bar himself when he had to work back to back late and early shifts. Paul had no idea where the man lived, so it was possible it could be a far drive from here. None of Daryl’s texts indicated that he’d been super busy this week, though.

Paul felt his heart rate begin to pick up. He didn’t think this place had a bathroom, but he remembered spotting a sink back here the time he came to pick up his car. Walking down the room, he found the large basin quickly. On the side of the sink was a toothbrush and toothpaste. Below on the floor was two nearly empty bottles—one body wash, one shampoo. He thought of the dirty towel on the countertop.

 _Fuck_ , Paul thought as he rubbed one hand over his face.

Daryl was definitely staying at the shop. For how long, he had no idea. All he knew is that he wasn’t going to say anything—not yet at least. He didn’t want to embarrass the man any further than he already had. He'd at least let him eat dinner in peace before even attempting to broach the subject.

When Paul turned around, he realized it was too late.

Daryl was standing in the garage, jaw tight and face beat red as he realized the younger man must have noticed the bedding and his bathroom items. Paul’s breath caught in his throat.

“Daryl,” Paul started, voice soft.

The man breathed through his nose as his chest heaved. Paul hadn’t seen him look so upset since the first night they met on the road.

“I was just—”

“Why can’t you just mind your own business for once, huh?” Daryl snapped.

Paul stepped forward to close some of the space between them. “Daryl, I wasn’t trying to—”

“What? What were you tryn’a do?” Daryl seethed, “Keep stickin’ your damn nose where it don’t belong?”

“No,” Paul said. “The door was open and the truck just caught my eye.”

Daryl shook his head, jaw tight as he looked away from Paul’s eyes.

“Listen,” Paul murmured. “I’m sorry that I walked in on my own, but I don’t think anything less of you just because you’ve been sleeping here a bit.”

The taller man turned his head back to Paul. His dark bangs parted before narrowed eyes. “A bit?” he scoffed. “How would ya feel if I told you I live here, huh? That I don’t got nowhere else to go?”

Paul’s heart rate sped up and his stomach dropped. He hadn't thought this was the only place the man was staying.

“You disgusted by me yet? You gonna run back to your nice little life and hang out with your little hippie friends instead? Finally realize I ain’t one of them, that I’m just some poor, boring old redneck? Stop botherin’ me and pretendin’ you want to be my friend. Don’t need your damn pity,” the taller man spewed.

Paul swallowed. “Is that what you think of me?”

Daryl breathed in through his nose, chest heaving. “Don’t get why you’re trying so hard to get in my business.”

Paul set his lips in a line and nodded. Logically he knew the man was lashing out from a place of insecurity and embarrassment, but he couldn’t help but feel personally offended by Daryl’s words. And it wasn’t just his pride—he was actually hurt.

“Well, Daryl, the reason why I’ve been trying so hard is because I legitimately like you as a person. I’m sorry if that bothered you. I’ll leave you alone,” he said cooly before walking around Daryl and out into the reception area.

“Paul,” Daryl rasped behind him once they both entered the room.

Paul glared at him. “Keep the food. And don’t worry, it’s not because I _pity_ you. I’m not hungry.”

Then he walked out the door.

 

* * *

 

  
Paul rested fully clothed under the sheets of his bed. He was so emotionally exhausted by the time he returned home that he just felt like lying down.

In reality, he'd only known Daryl for a little over a month now. He shouldn’t care so much that the man didn’t want to see him anymore, but he did. Moreover, he was upset that Daryl thought he was the kind of person who would think those things about him. This whole time he’d been trying with such care to try to get to know him and to respect his personal boundaries at the same time, but all of that apparently didn’t matter anymore.

Sighing, Paul rubbed a hand over his face and beard. He’d been sitting in the same spot for over an hour just thinking about the whole night and how quickly things had escalated. He almost called Tara to vent, but for some reason he didn't want to talk about it with her. Or anyone.

He knew he was being irrational. Based on the way he met the man, this was probably the way their acquaintance was meant to end from the beginning. As he began sitting up so he could shower off his day’s sweat, his phone began buzzing against his bedside table.

Must be Tara.

He didn’t want to speak to her right now, but he felt that he should at least answer and tell her they’d talk tomorrow.

When he picked up his phone, however, the name that ran across his screen was not Tara’s.

_Daryl Dixon._

Paul’s chest was beating rapidly. His prideful side didn't want to answer at all, but the part that felt like hiding under his comforter wanted to see what he had to say. Exhaling, Paul answered the call and brought the phone to his ear.

“Yes?”

The other end of the line crackled. “Paul?”

“Is there something you want?” Paul said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Forget it.”

The younger man sat up from his reclining position. “So there’s no reason you just called me?”

He heard shuffling. Then, “I was an ass.”

“I don’t disagree.”

Daryl was silent for a moment. “Didn’t mean what I said about you.”

“Didn't you, though? You seemed pretty adamant about it.”

“Just don’t get why you want to spend your time on me.”

Something inside Paul’s chest tightened.

“I told you already. I like you.”

Daryl was silent on the other line.

Paul exhaled. “Whatever Daryl, if you don’t want to see me anymore I get it. I’m not going to force you.”

After several more beats of quiet, Daryl answered. “M’sorry. I just didn’t want you to see that, alright?” he said, gravelly voice soft.

Paul swallowed. He knew he should still be angry, but he wasn’t. The man was living out of his shop and thought Paul couldn’t possibly like him for who he was, especially after seeing everything. His chest still felt constricted and his mind automatically returned to the other day at the diner when he’d gotten the urge to run his hand through the man’s hair.

He sighed, already knowing what he was going to do next. _I’m fucked, aren’t I?_

“170 Park Drive.”

“What?” Daryl asked.

“170 Park Drive,” Paul said again, slower this time.

“What’s that?”

“My address.”

Daryl paused. “To what?”

Paul snorted. “To my apartment complex. I’m apartment 8C.”

Daryl was silent again.

“Listen, if you’d like to come over, shower, sleep, whatever, you’re more than welcome. And before you yell at me, I’m not trying to pity you. I’m still kind of pissed at you, actually. But I do like you, no matter what you choose to believe, and I don’t want you to feel like I’m judging you at all.”

After not hearing anything from Daryl after several moments, Paul began again.

“I’m going to shower now. If you come, just press my number outside and I’ll buzz you in. But if you don’t want to come, that’s fine too. Okay?”

“Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Paul took his time in the shower, rinsing off the sweat and stress from his long day. He washed his hair too, making sure to suds it with extra conditioner so it didn’t get too dry. After thirty minutes under the hot stream he figured it was time for him to get out.

The man changed into sweats and brushed through his damp hair. As he did so, his mind finally started racing.

_I just invited Daryl Dixon to stay at my apartment._

He sighed, placing the brush down on the bathroom countertop. Tara was going to have a field day with this one.

A moment later, he was shaken from his thoughts as a sound filled the air.

His buzzer went off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Leave a comment below and let me know what you thought. :)


	8. Chapter 8

Exhaling through his nose, Paul glanced at himself in the bathroom mirror. His newly-brushed wet hair was long against his collarbone, leaving two damp spots on his favorite Budweiser sleep t-shirt. His dark eyebrows looked a bit wilder than usual from when he’d rubbed his face in the shower, so he quickly pressed his fingers to them and straightened out a few hairs.

_That’ll have to do._

Paul exited the bathroom and padded barefoot through his living area, pausing once he reached the buzzer hanging adjacent to his apartment door. Even though the intercom portion of the device had ceased to function long ago, the entry button still worked. He pushed it with a quick breath and granted Daryl access to his apartment building.

After, he sat down at the kitchen table, fidgeting with the drawstrings of his sweatpants as he waited. While logically he’d known Daryl accepting his offer was a possibility, he was still surprised the man had actually shown up. Paul felt a strange combination of nerves and warmth as his mind adjusted to the realization: he was was anxious to see what the biker would say and do upon his arrival, but at the same time he couldn’t help but feel pleased that Daryl chose to come over.

Before his thought process could continue, however, two knocks sounded from the door.

Paul left his seat and walked to the entrance, unlocking the chain and twisting the knob. He pulled the door open to reveal Daryl Dixon, dressed in the same dark clothing as earlier and holding the bag of Barbecue food in his left hand. The man’s broad shoulders were stiff and his lips were softly pressed together in a silent line. His blue eyes met Paul’s own for only a moment before flicking downward awkwardly.

“Hey,” Paul said, breaking the silence, “come in.”

He moved aside and allowed enough room for the taller man to pass by. Daryl stared at him for a moment before taking a hesitant step through the threshold into Paul’s apartment.

Once the man was inside, Paul locked the door behind them and turned to face Daryl. He was standing in the kitchen, looking around the apartment.

“Did you find the place okay?” Paul asked.

Daryl turned to Paul. “Yea,” he rasped.

The apartment was silent as they stood facing each other in the kitchen.

“You didn't have to bring that back,” Paul said then, gesturing to the bag.

Daryl shifted and placed the large item on the table. “Didn’t eat any of it.”

“Well, if you’re hungry you can have some now.”

“Nah.”

The older man glanced at Paul and then away again, awkwardly unable to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry ‘bout what I said,” Daryl said after several beats of quiet, gravelly voice soft.

As their eyes locked, Paul felt a wave of warmth tingle in his chest. He believed Daryl’s apology was sincere, and based on the redness of his cheeks Paul could tell it took a lot for him to say the words in person. He knew Daryl’s anger had stemmed from a place of genuine embarrassment and insecurity.

“Don’t be,” Paul sighed. “I’m sorry for snooping. I shouldn’t have done that.”

The mechanic’s eyes darted up to meet Paul’s.

“I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable,” the younger man added, his own eyes wide and sincere.

Daryl glanced away again, awkwardly hovering them toward a random spot in the kitchen.

“Nah,” he said after a moment. “Was my fault.”

Paul stepped closer, bare feet cold against the chilly tile. “It’s no one’s fault, okay? I’m glad you’re here now.”

Daryl met his gaze once more. They stood staring at each other silently for what felt like minutes, but Paul knew it must have only lasted several seconds.

“Feel free to sit,” Paul said to fill the silence, motioning toward one of the kitchen table chairs. He sat down on the other one and rested his feet on the wooden bar beneath it to avoid the cold floor.

The older man glanced at the chair and then back at Paul before accepting the suggestion and pulling it from the table, the rough noise of wood scraping tile filling the air. He slumped onto the seat and leaned forward, placing both elbows atop the table surface and fidgeting with his fingers.

“How long have you been staying there?” Paul asked softly.

He could hear Daryl exhale through his nose as he chewed on the inside of his bottom lip. “Few weeks.”

“Before I met you, or after?”

The older man flicked his eyes toward Paul. “You really wanna know all this?”

Paul reclined back in his chair. “I’m here to listen. But you don’t have to if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Daryl gnawed on his lip and fidgeted again with his hands. Then, one arm drifted off the table and reached into his back pocket for what Paul presumed were his cigarettes. The older man halted, eyes paused on Paul.

“Can I uh, can I smoke in here?”

“I’m not a fan," Paul said, "but in this case I’ll let it slide.”

“Nah, s’alright,” Daryl rasped, removing his hand from his back pocket and resting it back on the table.

“You sure?” Paul asked, one brow raised.

“Yea, it’s your place.”

Paul quirked his lips up in an appreciative smile. “Can I get you anything else? Water? A beer? I have an unopened six pack in the fridge.”

The older man shrugged, eyes still on Paul’s.

Quirking a brow, Paul pushed himself up from his seat. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he smirked.

He opened the fridge and bent over to reach the set of beers on the lowest shelf. As he leaned down he felt Daryl’s eyes on him, so he cocked his head to glimpse at the man. The biker was watching him, but glanced away quickly once their eyes met. Paul felt a combination of amusement and embarrassment at the sight, his cheeks pinking on their own accord. He ignored the sensation and turned his head back to the fridge, the chilly air cooling his hot face.

Once he pulled out two beers, Paul closed the fridge and settled himself back into his seat. He pushed one can across the small table into Daryl’s space. The older man took it in hand and turned it around, inspecting the label with narrowed eyes.

“What kinda beer is this,” he rasped, eyebrows knit.

“It’s a local craft beer. It’s good, promise.”

The older man popped open the tab and brought the can to his lips. After knocking back a gulp, he returned the can to the table.

“Thoughts?” Paul asked, now sipping his own beer.

Daryl shrugged, looking down at the can. “Ain’t bad.”

“Glad you like it.”

Daryl lifted his eyes to meet Paul’s. They looked at each other for a few moments. Daryl broke away first, returning his attentions to the can in his hand. Neither said a word for several more beats, and just as Paul was going to speak up in an attempt to change the subject, Daryl spoke.

“Got in a fight the night we met,” he rasped.

Paul straightened in his seat, eyes widening in surprise at Daryl’s admission. His mind perked to attention and his eyes never left Daryl’s form. “What happened?” he asked softly.

Daryl stiffened his shoulders and didn’t meet Paul’s eyes. “Couldn’t afford much when I moved up here. Nothin’ nice like this.”

The younger man felt his chest tighten. While he was grateful for all he had and knew that many people lived in much worse circumstances than his own, he’d never classify his apartment as “nice,” per se. He was thirty-two years old and bartended for a living, and although he made a decent paycheck, he wasn’t wealthy by any means.

“Spent most of what I had on the shop,” Daryl continued, idly playing with the beer can in his hand, “so I rented this piece a' shit apartment. Landlord was an asshole, some damn prick. But the place was cheap so I didn’t pay no attention to him.

“One night I hear people screaming outside my door. I go out there and my neighbor’s arguing with some woman, looked like a junkie itchin' for a hit. They start yellin,’ and then all of a sudden the guy just fuckin’ lost it, grabs the woman and she starts screamin’ bloody murder. I run over and pull him away, push him into the wall. He was damn pissed. We start goin' at it, he punches me and I get him down on the ground."

Paul looked to where the faded remnants of Daryl’s black eye painted his cheek in light yellow hues.

"The landlord comes out then, sees me pinning the guy down and thinks I caused the whole damn thing. Says he doesn’t want no cops around, but he’ll call them if I didn’t get out by the end of the week.”

Paul exhaled. His stomach felt uneasy. “Was he legally able to do that?”

“Didn’t care, I didn’t want to be around that asshole no more. Couldn't sleep that night so I rode my bike for a while, saw your bar and wanted a drink.”

Paul’s breath quickened. He thought back to that night and how standoffish the man had been. Part of that was just Daryl’s personality, but now understanding what had happened not long before made him feel guilty. While there was no way he could have known that Daryl was nearly evicted at the time, he still wished there was something he could have done to help.

_After all that, he still stopped to help me on the road. And at the shop the next day._

“When did you finally leave?” Paul asked after a few moments.

Daryl took a swig of his beer before answering. “Started packing Thursday night. Didn’t take long ‘cause I barely had any stuff in there. Left the next morning.”

Paul nodded. His chest felt constricted and his stomach was still queasy. He wondered if that’s why Daryl had called him so late on Friday from the shop’s phone—because it was his first night actually staying at the garage. He recalled the biker’s late-night appearance at the bar the following evening and how he had mentioned he’d been “up.” Suddenly his mind pictured Daryl settling onto old sheets in the back of the truck bed, unable to sleep on the hard surface in the stuffy, un-air-conditioned garage. Paul felt an urge to place his hand over the man’s own, but he shook the thought from his mind.

“I’m sorry Daryl,” Paul said instead, voice soft.

The man made eye contact with Paul for the first time since beginning his story. His cheeks were slightly pink. He shrugged one shoulder awkwardly.

“Been tryin’ to save up some money until I can find a better place,” Daryl rasped, eyes now back on his beer can. “But uh, besides you I ain’t gotten that much business.”

Paul’s chest felt tight again. He watched the man fiddle with the can, dark bangs hanging over his cheeks and wavy ends drifting to touch his broad shoulders. Just like earlier when he told Daryl his address, Paul already knew what he was going to do next.

“Well,” he started, “You’re welcome to crash here until you find somewhere.”

Daryl’s head shot up, face beat red and eyes meeting Paul’s.

Paul lifted his hands. “Just offering, no pressure.”

The older man shook his head. “Can’t accept that.”

Perhaps the offer may have been a bit too forward for Daryl—he clearly harbored insecurities around others seeing him as a “charity case” and although he and Paul had come a long way over the past several weeks, it wasn’t like they were best friends or anything. Yet, Paul hated the idea of the man staying alone in the dingy garage, not having a comfortable space to sleep or a real bathroom to use. After hearing what had happened to him, he wanted to help. Paul knew Daryl was a good person and he genuinely liked him. Regardless of how Daryl felt about him, Paul cared about his well being. The least he could do was offer.

“It’s not a problem, Daryl. Just keep it in mind. Plus, once it starts getting cold my couch will start looking quite appealing.”

Daryl snorted, flicking his eyes from Paul.

“In the meantime,” Paul continued, changing the subject to spare Daryl from his embarrassment for the moment, “are you sure you’re not hungry? I know I am.”

He stood from his seat and reached for the bag of Barbecue. He unfolded the top and peered inside, the paper crinkling as he stretched the bag. “It’s late and I’ve got Judo in the morning before work, so I think I’ll just have some cornbread and call it a night,” he mused, eyes concentrated on the takeout boxes as he perused inside.

“S’that like Karate?” Daryl said.

Paul looked up from the bag. “They have similarities. Karate tends to be more offensive, you know, throwing punches and kicks and all that, while Judo focuses on the defensive side. Evading, grappling, throwing, the like.”

“Hm,” Daryl hummed in understanding.

“Are you interested in martial arts?” Paul said as he began removing the different boxes from the bag. Of course the corn bread’s container was near the bottom, so he ended up taking the all out and placing them on the table.

“Don’t know much about it. Aside from movies or whatever,” Daryl answered.

Paul smirked. “I could teach you, if you’re interested.”

The man narrowed his eyes.

Paul chuckled. “You look like my friend Tara when I ask her to go to the gym with me. She always says she’s afraid I’ll pull some “ninja bullshit” on her.”

Daryl snorted, one corner of his lips quirking up ever so slightly.

 _One day I’ll make him laugh_ , Paul thought. He blinked away the idea—suddenly it felt too big for what his chest could handle at the moment.

The younger man walked over to the counter and pulled open one of the upper cabinets. He took out one plate and placed it down. Hovering his hand over the stack of plates, he turned his head back to Daryl.

“You want a plate?” he asked.

Daryl looked at Paul and shrugged a shoulder as he had earlier when Paul offered him a drink. “Don’t matter.”

Paul dropped his head, chuckling softly through his nose. He grabbed another plate and closed the cabinet.

“Here,” Paul said with a smirk. “I know you’re hungry.”

Daryl gave him a look, but accepted the plate. “Thanks.”

Once he grabbed a fork for Daryl, Paul began opening the containers. He took two pieces of cornbread for himself. The older man allotted himself a decent helping of each meal.

“Do you want to heat yours up? The food’s probably cold now,” Paul asked.

The man was already chewing a forkful of mac and cheese. “Still warm,” he rasped after swallowing.

Paul raised his brows in amusement. “Whatever you say. Microwave’s all yours if you change your mind.”

 

* * *

 

 

Both ate in silence for the next few minutes. Paul took his time on his pieces of cornbread, instead focusing on Daryl as he looked down at his plate and ate his dinner. For some reason, the younger man became mesmerized by the way the material of Daryl's dark shirt clung to his shoulders and arms as he scooped forkful after forkful. He then turned his attentions to the man’s dark hair, which seemed like it hadn’t been washed since he’d seen him at the diner over a week ago. From appearances, most would be intimidated by the biker, but Paul saw a soft, almost innocent person behind his facade. Paul’s mind then imagined the man bending over the garage sink, dipping his head in the water to wash his hair. His chest felt tight again and he glanced away before Daryl could notice, returning his sights to his cornbread and taking a gulp of his almost-empty beer.

“Can I ask you something?” Paul asked after another minute of quiet.

Daryl looked up from his plate, which was nearly finished. “Okay.”

“Why did you leave Georgia?”

The man stared at him, meal long forgotten.

Paul bent forward, leaning his arms on the table. “I just mean, it seems that you have some good friends down there. Were you looking to expand your business?”

Daryl was silent for several beats, but then he leaned back against the chair. “Business at the shop wasn't good after my brother,” he began, voice low and gravelly. “Regulars didn’t want no part of a drug investigation, even after he was long gone and shit was settled. Ended up doin’ odd jobs here and there to pay the bills, but it was too much. The shop closed down about eight months ago.”

Paul listened intently, eyes round and soft as he watched the older man speak.

“After, I didn’t have much to do. Hated stayin’ in the house because it just reminded me of my brother. Money was runnin’ low, so I had to do somethin’ about it. Rick said I should move out and find a new place. When I talked to my friend Carol, she said I should go out of state, start new for a while to get away from everything. Thought it was stupid at first—the only people I knew were in Georgia. I’d never been outside the state in my damn life.

“That’s why I ended up leavin’ though, because I ain’t ever been anywhere. Found this place because it was close to D.C. and the old repair shop I bought was cheap. Owner before wanted to get rid of it. Don’t know how to do anything else so it wasn’t like I had much of a choice of jobs anyway.”

Paul nodded. “Do you think you’ll move back?”

“Don’t know,” he shrugged. “Not for a while.”

A strange relief washed over Paul. “Oh, okay.”

Daryl looked at him then, and their eyes locked for a few moments. This time Paul flicked his eyes away, his heart beating quicker than it had before. He returned his focus to both their plates. The man had finished eating and it was getting late. The silence between them buzzed with anticipation—Paul knew he should just get his next question over with.

“Not sure if you’ve given any thought to my earlier offer, and you don’t have to decide that right now. But would you at least like to stay the night?”

The older man stiffened, broad shoulders straightening.

Paul lifted an amused brow. “Don’t tell me you only came to bring the Barbecue back. Not that I don’t appreciate it, but my offer on the phone was genuine too.”

Daryl looked away, then back at Paul. “Don’t want to bother you.”

“If you were bothering me I wouldn’t be talking to you right now. If I didn’t want you to be here I wouldn’t have said anything when you called.”

Cheeks darkening, Daryl’s eyes looked away once more. Paul could tell the older man was embarrassed to accept his offer, and he figured getting things started would make it easier for him. He stood up from the table, pushing the chair back with the back of his knees. “Come on, I’ll grab you some things. You can shower.”

He glanced quickly at Daryl before walking off into his bedroom. He collected the largest clothing he could find—the man was several inches taller than him and he was much broader and less lean than Paul. He settled on an oversized t-shirt, baggy gym shorts with an adjustable waist, and boxers. He walked out from his room and into the bathroom, placing the stack of folded clothing on top of the closed toilet. When he re-entered the kitchen, Daryl was standing awkwardly and chewing on the inside of his cheek, watching.

“I left you a change of clothes. Sorry if they don’t fit since I’m uh, a bit smaller. Feel free to use anything you need. To turn on the shower you just pull the knob out and then twist it clockwise for heat.”

The man nodded. “Thanks.”

Paul gave a soft smile. “You’re welcome.”

Daryl walked into the bathroom and closed the door, clicking it behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

Paul’s couch pulled out into a bed. He hadn’t used it in a long time, not since Tara and Rosita had crashed last year after he hosted that New Years Eve party at his apartment. He and Alex had shared his bed, he remembered. He found extra clean sheets in his laundry closet and tucked them over the pull out. He took two extra pillows from his bed and placed them near the head of the now-transitioned couch, and finally threw several warm blankets on top.

As he made the bed, Paul listened to the soft hum of the shower across the room. His mind nearly wandered to how the man’s broad shoulders would look underneath the warm spray two times, but he forced himself to concentrate on his bed-making skills. He wanted Daryl to feel comfortable after so many nights sleeping in the hard cargo bed.

_Keep it together, Rovia._

About fifteen minutes later, Paul heard the shower turn off. He busied himself with cleaning up their dirty plates and putting away the food, but he couldn’t help his own anticipation for Daryl’s exit from the bathroom. He was drying off one of the plates with a towel when the door finally opened.

Daryl’s wet hair was charcoal dark as it hung in unbrushed waves, the ends just touching his shoulders. The shirt he’d lent was even a little big on Daryl too, but it fit nicely around his shoulders and biceps. The shorts seemed fine as well. In his arms were his dirty clothes, including the leather vest.

The older man didn’t quite meet Paul’s eyes, and instead drifted them over to the couch that was now a bed.

“Everything’s set up for you,” Paul said, placing down the plate in the drying rack and walking toward where Daryl stood. “If you’re cold let me know—I have more blankets.”

Daryl looked at him and nodded softly. “Alright.”

Paul gestured to the clothes in his hand. “You can put those anywhere. If you need to hang anything I can put it in my closet.”

“Nah,” Daryl rasped. “I’ll just fold ‘em.”

“Okay.”

They looked at each other for several more moments. “Well, I have an early day so I’m going to turn in. If you need anything let me know,” Paul added before walking toward his bedroom entrance.

“Thanks,” Daryl returned.

 

* * *

 

Paul woke in the middle of the night needing to piss. He groggily pushed back his covers and padded through his small room, opening his door into the main area of his apartment.

His sleepy mind was taken back for a moment by the sight before him: his couch was pulled out into a bed, Daryl Dixon sound asleep on top. Once his senses came to he calmed down a bit, remembering the events earlier in the night. He quietly tip-toed to the bathroom, making sure not to wake the sleeping man. It wasn’t difficult—he’d always been able to be nimble and quiet when needed.

After flushing the toilet, he was afraid he may have awoken Daryl. He pushed open the bathroom door into the living area extra slowly as to not have it creak obnoxiously. Thankfully it was silent, and he stepped softly out of the bathroom.

The apartment was dark, but the blue and green lights drifting from the kitchen appliances set the room in a muted yet visible glow. Daryl was still on his side as earlier, head resting on one of the pillows and blankets pulled up just above his waist. Drying dark waves hung over his cheeks and neck, and his scruffy face looked soft and serene as his chest rose and fell with each sleeping breath.

A sudden, deep wave of warmth spread through Paul’s chest. For all his efforts throughout the night to avoid thinking about his attraction to the man, he couldn’t stop the thought that danced through his mind at that moment—that Daryl was beautiful.

As soon as the words came he pushed them away. He broke his gaze from the man’s form and walked back into his room to attempt to fall back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment below and let me know what you thought!


	9. Chapter 9

High-pitched, melodic chimes swelled into Paul’s consciousness. The initial shock woke him from his slumber, and after several seconds he realized the noise was only his phone ringing on the table beside him. With a sleep-disoriented hum, he extended an arm and fumbled to turn off the device with one hand. Once silenced, Paul inhaled and squinted open his eyes.

The bright light of his sunny room stung his vision, so he closed his eyes and brought his hand to his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers. He exhaled deeply. Then he remembered.

_Daryl._

Paul had struggled to fall asleep last night after watching the sleeping man. Despite his attempts to avoid thinking about the biker in the next room, his mind kept traveling back to Daryl’s strong arms and shoulders, the way he looked so lost and shy at his kitchen table, his dark wavy hair, his blue eyes, his sleeping face in the hazy light of the living room. He couldn’t remember the last time having a man in his apartment made him feel so affected—and Daryl wasn’t even sharing a bed with him. Ultimately, Paul had resorted to putting in his headphones in around 3 AM and listened to a playlist of white noise to fall asleep.

Now, four and a half hours later, he felt groggy and sleep-deprived. Yet, a nervous excitement bubbled within him that helped push aside his exhaustion. He couldn’t believe that Daryl was actually outside his door, sleeping on the bed of his pull-out couch.

He exhaled a second deep breath. Relax.

After opening his eyes and letting them adjust to the sunlight, Paul pushed himself up from his bed. He padded to his bureau and pulled out gym shorts, a tank, and his favorite hoodie. His Judo class didn't start for another hour, but he needed to make breakfast and it took about fifteen minutes to drive there. He’d also have to pack a change of clothes for work after he finished at the gym, so he stepped into his closet and pulled out a few items.

Once changed and packed, Paul slowly opened his bedroom door. Thankfully nothing creaked, so his entrance into the main area of his apartment was relatively silent. With a quick glance at the pull-out couch, he spotted Daryl. The man must have rolled over during the night because his back faced Paul’s direction and the blankets were wrapped haphazardly around his torso. Daryl’s now-dried hair messily splayed against the pillow beneath the side of his head and his shoulders slightly rose and fell with each breath. He was still out cold.

Quietly, Paul tip-toed into the bathroom and clicked the door shut behind him. He brushed through his hair twice and then pulled it up into a bun with an elastic hair-tie. It was easier and more comfortable for him to keep it up while doing physical activity. Less distractions, more efficiency. Once satisfied with his hair, Paul picked up his deodorant and rubbed it beneath both armpits. He was relieved that he’d showered last night, because if he’d attempted one now it would definitely be loud enough to wake the sleeping man.

_I’m glad he’s actually getting a good night’s rest._

The thought caused him to wonder what Daryl planned on doing next. Would he leave once he woke up? Did he want to stay? Would he accept Paul’s offer to crash until he could find a better apartment? The biker had opened up quite a bit to Paul last night too—would he bring it up or ignore it?  As he opened the door and walked back out into the main area, he glanced at Daryl once again. He hadn’t moved from his earlier position.

Paul stepped onto the tile of the kitchen and began opening cabinets as quietly as he could. He didn’t want to cook anything that’d be too loud and wake Daryl up—usually before morning workouts he liked eggs or a smoothie for a protein rich meal—so instead he grabbed a bowl and a box of Cheerios. He quietly pulled open the fridge door and took out the milk. Thankfully it wasn’t expired yet.

As he poured the cheerios into the bowl, he sensed Daryl stir from the side of his vision. He paused his motions, afraid he was being too loud. He watched as the biker inhaled deeply, his shoulders rising and falling with a soft _whir_ of breath. A few seconds passed and the man didn’t move, so Paul began to pour the cereal into the bowl once more.

He tried his best to keep the flow of little wheat circles as slow as possible, reducing the sound of the soft clinking as each piece dropped into the ceramic bowl. The paper from the inside of the box crinkled with one shake and Paul winced. He sensed movement again and he flicked his eyes to the bed a few feet away.

Daryl’s arms were now bent toward his front, hands presumably rubbing his face and eyes. Paul placed the cereal box down on the counter softly and continued to watch the man. Slowly, Daryl pushed himself up into a seated position so that his profile was facing Paul. After a second he sleepily blinked in the younger man’s direction. They locked eyes.

The biker seemed to tense at that moment, as if he just realized where he’d woken up. Paul quirked his lips up into a small smile and stepped back from the counter.

“Hey,” he said softly, careful of the volume of his voice.

Daryl gave him a once over before looking away. “Sorry,” he answered, voice extra gravelly from sleep.

Paul raised his brows. He was the one who should be apologizing to Daryl for waking him up, not the other way around. “For what?”

“Did I oversleep or somethin?” Daryl said, eyes returning to Paul. Even from a few feet away, Paul could tell they were slightly bloodshot and puffy. His chest constricted.

“No, not at all. It’s only 7:45.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul sighed. “I was trying to be quiet, but the echo in this kitchen is horrible.”

Daryl shook his head. “Nah, s’fine. Should be up anyway,” he said as he began pushing aside the blankets.

“Okay,” Paul said, watching Daryl stand from the bed. The t-shirt he’d given Daryl to wear looked soft and rumpled against his chest, and his dark hair was a bit wilder than usual since it had dried in such a weird position against the pillow. Two wisps of his bangs curved over his cheekbones, highlighting his small blue eyes. Paul’s eyes drifted to his lips, which looked soft and warm against his light scruff. He immediately blinked away and pushed the thought from his head.

“Do you want some breakfast?” Paul offered after clearing his throat. “I have cereal. Or I can make you something if you’d like?”

Daryl stood awkwardly in silence before shrugging a shoulder. “Thanks. Cereal’s good.”

“No problem,” Paul smiled softly. He raised a brow and pointed to the box on the counter. “Cheerios okay?”

Daryl nodded.

Paul took the bowl he’d already fixed and poured some milk into it. He placed the finished item on the table with a spoon. “Here you are,” he said, gesturing to the meal.

They locked eyes again and they stood staring at each other for a few seconds before Daryl looked away. He walked over to the table and sat down in the chair nearest to the bowl.

As Daryl began to eat, Paul made himself a bowl. He sat opposite Daryl at the table afterward, spooning a group of cheerios into his mouth as he glanced at the man across from him. The curved wisps of his hair hadn’t moved from his cheekbones and a vein in his muscular arm appeared every time he bent it to scoop with his spoon.

 _This is technically our fourth meal together_ , Paul thought. He felt ridiculous as soon as the notion passed through his mind—he sounded like some pathetic lovestruck teenager. It wasn’t like that anyway. Maybe Daryl would actually be open to being friends now (or temporary roommates, possibly), but Paul wasn’t expecting anything more than that. Yes, he might find Daryl attractive— _beautiful_ , his mind chimed in, remembering his thoughts from last night—but he wasn't trying to get into his pants. He didn’t want this to be some random hookup. He liked Daryl.

“So are you heading to the shop after this?” Paul asked, starting a new conversation to alleviate both the awkward silence and his mind’s ramblings.

Daryl looked up from his bowl. “Yea,” he mumbled, mouth full. “Should get there soon.”

“Okay,” Paul nodded. After a moment of pause, he continued. “I’ll be heading out too for Judo class and the gym.”

“Alright,” Daryl said, placing down his spoon. “I’ll go.”

Paul raised his brows. “No, that’s not what I meant. Stay here all day if you want,” he blurted.

_Good one, Rovia._

Daryl was silent, eyes appraising him.

Sighing, Paul placed his elbows on the table. “I just meant that you’re free to stay as long as you’d like, even if I have to leave before you.”

Daryl watched him again. Then, “S’alright, usually open it up around eight anyway.”

“Okay, no problem.”

Their eyes locked for a moment, then Daryl glanced back at his bowl.

 

* * *

 

After they finished their meals, Paul collected the dirty dishes and placed them in the sink. He saw Daryl begin to collect his clothes from last night.

“Can I use your bathroom?” he asked as Paul turned on the faucet.

“Of course. Do you want something clean to wear?”

Daryl shook his head. “Nah, it’s fine. Thanks.”

As Daryl changed in the bathroom, Paul washed the dishes. After he finished, he went into his bedroom to collect his gym bag and put on his sneakers. When he returned to the main living area, Daryl was already changed and attempting to make the couch bed.

“Oh don’t worry about that,” Paul said. “I’ll deal with it later.”

Daryl looked up at him, then returned to the bed. He’d already fixed most of the blankets, so he finished placing the pillows correctly and then stood up straight, returning to face Paul.

“I’m going to head out in a few minutes—do you want to leave together?” Paul asked.

Daryl stared at him, awkwardly shifting in place. “Yea—uh, sure.”

Once Daryl tied on his boots and gathered his keys and Paul locked up, the younger man led them both from the apartment and down the hall to the elevator. They traveled down to the lobby in an awkward silence. When they walked out into the parking lot, Paul followed Daryl to his bike, which was parked in the closest spot in front of the building.

“So,” Paul started, shifting the bag on his shoulder with one hand, “I’m glad you stayed last night.”

Daryl looked down at Paul. “Thanks for lettin’ me,” he said softly.

Paul smiled. “You’re welcome. And my offer still stands, by the way. Think about it.”

The taller man nodded slightly.

“I have an early shift, so I’ll be finished around seven,” Paul continued. “Should be back here around 7:30 or 8. Feel free to text or call me if you want to come by.”

“Okay,” Daryl answered.

Paul’s eyes met the taller man’s. The grey-blue color was clearer in the bright sunlight.

One of the building tenants was walking to his car and glanced at the pair, giving them a once over. The sight distracted Paul and he cleared his throat.

“So uh, talk to you later?” Paul asked.

“Yea,” Daryl said before turning toward his bike and pulling on his helmet. He hopped up onto the vehicle and swung one leg over the other side. He put the keys in the ignition and revved the motorcycle to life. Paul’s throat suddenly felt dry.

“See you,” Paul said with an awkward wave.

_What was that? Really?_

Daryl gave him a look through the visor and then returned the wave. Then he left.

Paul watched him pull out of the parking lot, eyes glued to the angel wings on the back of his vest.

 

* * *

 

 

“So I was running the course, right? My timing’s good, I’m keeping up with the rest of the class. I even ran through all the tires perfectly. Then comes the stupid wall climbing. I was almost there Jesus, almost there, and I slipped at the last rock. I hate my life.”

Paul turned on his blinker as he made a turn. He’d called Tara after he left the gym, and was now listening to her complain about her police academy physical training on speaker.

“Did you fall?” he asked with concern.

“I slipped somewhat down and was able to hostler myself on some other rocks. Almost whacked the girl behind me, though.”

“I’m sorry, Tara. It sounds like it was better than last time, though?”

His friend snorted. “Yea. I guess anything is better than face-planting in wet mud.”

Paul chuckled. “What I would have done to witness that…”

“Shut up, Rovia. I still have those Snapchats you took on my phone from that party last year.”

“What are you going to do? Expose my shitty selfies to our group of friends? Oh no, the horror.”

“I hate you,” Tara laughed.

Paul pulled onto the road that led to the bar. He would be few minutes early to his shift, so he figured he could continue talking to Tara in the parking lot for a bit longer.

“What about you?” Tara asked then, “What were you up to yesterday? I texted you like six times last night and you never answered.”

The bartender’s mind flashed back to the the truck bed, the fight, Daryl sleeping in his couch pull-out. He sighed audibly without realizing how loud he'd been.

“Uh oh, what’s that mean? Gregory being an asswipe again?”

“No, not quite.”

“So what happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Paul replied.

His chest was beating faster than before as he pulled into the parking lot. He settled his sedan in one of the closer spaces. “Daryl may have stayed over my apartment last night,” he added quickly once he turned off his car.

He heard shuffling on the other end of the line. “Wait, hold up. _What?_ ” came Tara’s voice, louder and clearer this time. She must have taken him off her own speaker phone and pulled her cell to her ear.

Paul sighed again. “Don’t. It’s not what you think.”

“So you didn’t sleep with him?”

“No, Tara.” Paul warned.

“Okay, okay. What happened?”

“You can’t say anything, alright?”

“Who am I going to tell?”

“Tara,” Paul warned again.

“I promise. You know I wouldn't do that.”

Paul exhaled before continuing. “I found out that Daryl has been living at his mechanic shop for the past month or so.”

“Shit,” Tara breathed. “Why?”

“He had some trouble when he first moved here with his landlord. The guy kicked him out—illegally, I might add—but Daryl didn’t want to be there anyway. He decided to stay at his garage until he could find a better place.”

“Did he ask to stay over or something?”

“No, nothing like that. I found out by accident. I uh, I was at his garage to bring him dinner and noticed bedding in his truck. He was upset and embarrassed.”

“You brought him dinner?

“Really? That’s what you’re focusing on?”

Tara gave a laugh. “Never mind, continue.”

“We got into a fight. Well, it was really him being ashamed of his situation and lashing out. I left. Later he called to apologize and I offered him a place to crash for the night. I just didn’t want him to have to sleep that way, you know?”

Tara was silent for a moment before responding. “So he agreed?”

“Yes. He came over and crashed on the couch. That’s it.”

Tara hummed. “Do you think he wants to be friends now?”

“Maybe, I don’t know.” Paul sighed. “I offered him my place until he finds a new apartment. Not sure if he’ll say yes.”

“Wow. Mutual stalkers to roommates in like one month, well done Rovia, well done.”

Paul rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Tara…”

“I’m kidding. Nonetheless you have to admit the progression of your relationship with the guy has been a bit bizarre.”

“It’s been interesting, yes.”

“So when do I get to meet him? I want to know the guy that’s caught your attention.”

“It’s not—”

“I know, I know. But you like him as a person, do you not?”

Paul breathed softly. “Yeah.”

“Well then we should all hang out. Do you think he’d want to come over my place with the rest of us next weekend?”

Paul felt strangely nervous. “I don’t…I have no idea. I don’t even know if he wants to stay over again.”

“Okay. Well wait and see, but he’s welcome to join if you want to bring him.”

“What day did you want to hang again?”

“Saturday, does that work for you?”

“Yeah, I think I’m off.”

“Okay, cool.”

Silence passed between them.

“I should go. I’m going to be late for work.”

Tara paused. “Alright. Talk to you later.”

“You too,” Paul said before hanging up.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in and ran a hand over his face. He shook off the feeling and stepped out of his car, ready to start his shift.

 

* * *

 

 

The Friday evening crowd at the Hilltop was particularly loud and rambunctious given the early hour. It was some middle-aged woman’s bachelorette party, and all of her friends were embarrassingly tipsy at 4 PM and dancing enthusiastically even though the place didn’t have an official dance floor. A group of college kids played darts in the back corner throughout the day, screaming every time anyone was able to make the board in general. Most groups came and left—presumably to get dinner, activity always lulled around meal times—and by seven the place was nearly empty. Gregory wasn't on his shift today, so Paul cleaned up the bar with leisure for fifteen minutes. When Kal showed up to start his shift, Paul took leave and grabbed his stuff from the back room.

That’s when his phone rang.

He pulled the cell from his back pocket and saw Daryl’s name.

“Hi Daryl,” Paul said after answering. His heart increased its speed in anticipation.

Daryl cleared his throat on the other end of the line. “Hey. Uh, you at work still?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Oh. M’sorry, I can call back—”

“No, no that’s alright,” Paul cut in, voice softer than before. “I just finished up. I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

Paul bit his lip, waiting for the man to continue.

“You sure it ain’t a problem?”

Paul felt himself smirk involuntarily. “Yes, I’m sure Daryl.”

“I won’t stay too long. I ain’t trying to bum off ya.”

“I know. You’re welcome to stay as long or as short as you’d like.”

Silence passed.

“Okay.”

“Oh, great.”

Another awkward beat.

“S’it, uh, alright if I bring some clothes and stuff?” Daryl asked.

“Anything you need. You don’t have to bring bedding or towels or all that. Unless you want to, of course.”

“Alright.”

“I’m going to leave the bar now. Feel free to come over whenever you’re finished at work.”

“Okay.”

“Bye, see you soon.”

Once he hung up, he felt the same giddy nervousness as last night when he was waiting for Daryl to show up at his door. He opened up his conversation with Tara and sent a quick text.

 

> **Jesus 7:21 PM**  
>  Looks like I have a new roommate for the time being.
> 
> **Tara 7:22 PM**  
>  Saturday, 9 PM. Bring him. ;)

 

* * *

 

 

Daryl arrived at his apartment just after eight. He entered through the door carrying a large black garbage bag. The entire thing wasn’t full—Paul could tell there wasn't much inside given how it sunk disproportionately at one end. He assumed those were Daryl’s belongings and he just didn’t have an actual bag or backpack to store them in. Or Daryl’s handbags of choice were garbage bags, which could be equally as likely.

The older man awkwardly hovered in the kitchen with the plastic bag in hand while Paul turned to lock the door.

“Feel free to put that wherever,” Paul said over his shoulder. He heard the man’s boots click from the kitchen tile to the wood of the living room. Then he heard rustling and a soft thump—he must have placed the item on the ground.

When Paul turned around, Daryl was standing in the living room, biting on the side of his thumb. The garbage bag was on the ground next to the pull-out couch, which was exactly the way Daryl had left it from this morning. The man dropped his hand once he looked up and noticed Paul was gazing at him. Their eyes met momentarily and they stood in silence for a few seconds.

“So how was your day?” Paul started, filling the awkward quiet.

Daryl blinked. “Alright. You?”

“Not bad. Gregory wasn’t on shift with me so it was a pretty quiet day.”

The taller man nodded from across the room. Paul breathed in and looked around. Typically he was an expert at prolonging small talk to alleviate awkwardness—hell, that was half his job as a bartender—but something about Daryl standing there made him feel uncharacteristically nervous.

 _This is just different,_ Paul thought. _I haven’t had a roommate in years._

“Thank you for this,” came Daryl gravelly voice a moment later. His eyes couldn’t quite meet Paul’s and his face looked a shade darker than a few minutes ago.

Paul smiled softly before walking from the kitchen area into the living room, closing some of the space between them. “Don’t mention it.”

“I’ll pay you back—rent, food, whatever.”

“No need,” Paul said. “I’m not asking for anything.”

“Why?” Daryl asked.

Paul shrugged a shoulder. “You’ve been through a lot. I want to help.”

Daryl looked at him. Then, “Can’t just stay here for nothin,’ won’t do that to ya.”

Sighing, Paul stepped closer. “You’re not a burden Daryl. I wouldn’t charge my other friends to crash here so I’m not charging you either.”

The taller man tensed and his eyes locked onto Paul’s. He could see the man's chest gently rise with each quickening breath.

“I’d like us to be friends. Is that okay?” Paul asked.

Daryl dropped his eyes and shifted, still-curved bangs soft against his cheekbones. “Okay.”

Paul raised an amused brow. “Wow, don't get too excited Daryl. You might hurt yourself.”

The older man rolled his eyes, lips oh-so-slightly tightening into a smirk. Paul couldn't help but grin in response.

“Anyway,” Paul said, changing the subject, “I did a double class this morning so I’m allowing myself extra cornbread tonight. You up for more Barbecue?”

“Yea, sounds good,” Daryl rasped. “Thanks.”

They ate dinner together at the table as they did the previous night, except this time Paul actually took a few helpings of the other plates. Daryl ended up finishing all the take out boxes on his second round, and Paul had laughed at that in amazement, smile wide and eyes crinkled. He thought he noticed the man’s lips quirk again, but he could have been mistaken.

_Two in one night. I’m on a roll._

After they went their separate ways to go to sleep—Daryl onto the pull-out and Paul into his room—Paul sunk into his bed. As he attempted to fall asleep, he found himself replaying moments of Daryl in his apartment in his head. It was stupid, but it made him feel nice.

He was glad they could be friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts! Next few chapters should set up the next progression for the story.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still recovering from that episode. Jesus is an actual angel, somebody hold me.

The next few days were surprisingly quiet.

Much to Paul’s disappointment, his and Daryl’s schedules conflicted following the man’s move into his apartment. Each morning Daryl left early for the shop while Paul slept later in anticipation of his night shifts, and by the time the younger man returned home the biker was already asleep on the pull-out couch. In addition, the apartment was always tidy and untouched, as if Daryl purposefully avoided disturbing anything. Paul had even noticed Daryl’s shampoo and body wash from the shop sitting on the ledge of the tub in the shower. He wouldn’t have cared if Daryl kept sharing his own products, but he suspected the man probably hated feeling like he was “wasting” Paul’s things. The kitchen never seemed used as well—maybe he'd been eating at the shop or somewhere before returning to the apartment.

If it weren't for the man sleeping on his pull-out couch every night, Paul wouldn’t have even noticed he had a roommate.

While he knew this was bound to happen given his line of work—hell, he barely saw Tara because of his inconvenient hours—he hadn’t expected the separation to happen so quickly. Gregory assigned him the later shifts last minute, and even when he tried to wake up earlier than usual Daryl was always gone by then.

He had hoped, perhaps naively, that he and Daryl would begin to spend more time together now that they were living in the same apartment. Nothing too daunting, maybe just dinner on the couch watching television, chatting about work, drinking a few beers. Normal friendly roommate stuff. Yes, they hadn’t officially started their ‘friendship’ until only a few days ago, and sure, Daryl probably still felt awkward about the whole rooming situation, but Paul wanted Daryl to feel comfortable in his home—comfortable around him, his mind whispered—and to move on from their previous tension. With any other new roommate Paul wouldn’t care as much, but Daryl was different.

It wasn't until Wednesday night that Paul's shift ended at a decent hour. At 7:45 he exited The Hilltop and walked to his sedan over the gravelly asphalt of the parking lot. As he drove home, Paul realized that he actually felt giddy at the thought of returning to his apartment. His cheeks heated with embarrassment as he attempted to attribute his excitement to sleeping, eating, or even taking a hot shower. Yet, his mind couldn’t deny the real culprit: he was hoping Daryl would be awake when he returned home.

When Paul arrived at the apartment and unlocked his front door, Daryl was sitting at the kitchen table eating a slice of pizza. Next to him the cardboard box lay open, only two slivers missing from an otherwise untouched, plain cheese pie.  

Daryl turned his head, startled by Paul's sudden entrance. "Hey," he mumbled, mouth full.

Paul couldn’t help but smile. Not only was he happy to see Daryl awake for the first time in five days, but pizza always perked his mood—even though it was horrible for him. Nothing a few hours at the gym couldn’t fix, though.

“Hey,” Paul returned as he shut the door behind him. He gestured to the pizza box. "Smells good."

The older man swallowed the piece he'd been chewing, cheeks pink with embarrassment. "Got it for ya’ too, if you want any."

Paul raised an amused brow. “Well, I can’t _not_ accept free pizza.”

He walked from the door to the kitchen table, placing his gym bag on the tiled floor. "I'm starving," he breathed, pushing out one of the chairs and flopping down onto it. Paul pulled a piece from the box, cheese stretching in warm strings from the center of the pie. “Thank you.”

Daryl shrugged. “Ain’t much. You bought me food those other times”

Paul shook his head as he swallowed a bite of his slice. “Please, you don’t owe me for that. Thank you, though—this is really good.”

The older man glanced at him before giving a shy nod.

“It’s nice to see you,” Paul said then, letting the ache in his chest take full rein of the situation. “Sorry that my schedule’s been a bit crazy the past few days.”

“S’alright,” Daryl rasped, shrugging again softly. He flicked his eyes to Paul and then returned his attentions back to his half-eaten second slice.

Paul took another bite as he leaned back against the wooden chair. “How's the shop been?”

Daryl swallowed a particularly large piece he’d bitten off and wiped the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Same as usual."

The younger man nodded. He knew Daryl could use more business, and he'd gladly offer his own car up if the mechanic hadn't already fixed it.

That's when he remembered Eugene.

"I actually have a friend whose car may need some work. Something about his windshield wipers," Paul said. "If you want."

Daryl looked at him, brown bangs parted over his slightly widened eyes. Paul could tell he wasn't expecting him to say that.

"I don’t—”

"I know," Paul interrupted, already predicting what Daryl would say. _I don’t need you to do that._ “He asked for you, actually, after he heard my car was fixed. If you'd like I can give him your shop's address."

The man began chewing on the side of his lip. He gave Paul another quick glance, but was silent.

Paul leaned back in his chair and painted on an amused expression, attempting to ease the tension. “Eugene’s quite handy himself, but I don’t trust him near any heavy machinery. God knows what would happen if he tried to fix that. You’d be doing me a favor to be honest.”

“They’re just wipers,” Daryl rasped. “Ain’t that hard.”

“Well then I know you can handle it,” Paul smirked.

Daryl gave Paul a look before leaning back in his chair.

“So is that a yes?”

“Fine,” Daryl answered. He bit his lip again, eyes faltering from Paul’s face. Then, after a pause, he spoke again, voice softer. “Thanks. I’ll make it up to ‘ya.”

The younger man sighed. “Daryl, I’m just recommending your service to a friend, not buying you a house or a car. Although, if you’re looking for a sugar daddy, that can be arranged,” he teased with a quirked brow, hoping to add some levity.

Daryl rolled his eyes, cheeks pink. “Shuttup.”

Paul chucked, lips pressed into a smile as he laughed slightly through his nose. “One day I’ll win you over, Dixon.”

“Yea right,” he snorted.

Amused smirk drifting to a soft smile, Paul shifted in his seat. “In all seriousness, you don’t have to make any of this up to me,” he said, voice soft. “I’m doing it because I want to.”

Their eyes met, Paul’s sea-green wide on Daryl’s hesitant blue-grey. After several seconds, the biker broke his away and returned to chewing on his lip.

Paul knew Daryl’s awkwardness stemmed from guilt, but he wanted him to know that he shouldn’t feel that way—he genuinely wanted to help, no strings attached. But Paul also didn't want to belabor the point and embarrass him, so he stood up from his seat. “Want a beer?” he asked.

Daryl glanced up. “Uh sure, thanks.”

Walking over to the fridge and opening the door, Paul pulled two of the same craft beers from the other night from the case. He sat back down at the table and pushed one across to the other man. “Cheers,” he smirked before popping back the tab and taking a swig.

The other man did the same, gulping back several long chugs before placing the can back on the table and wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

Paul raised a brow.

“What?” Daryl rasped.

Stifling a smirk, Paul shook his head. “Nothing.”

Silence sat in the space between them as they ate their pizza and drank beer. After several minutes, Daryl settled his eyes on Paul. “What about you?” he asked. “The bar okay?”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Paul said. “Gregory’s been a little MIA lately, so I can’t complain.”

“Seen that guy again? The one you told me ‘bout at the diner?”

Paul breathed in, leaning back in his chair. “No, I haven’t.”

Daryl gave a soft nod. “That’s good.”

“I hope so,” Paul said, taking a sip of his beer. He wondered if Gregory’s sporadic absences were related to the mysterious man. Thinking back to the diner, Paul remembered how Daryl had suggested that this could be drug-related. Paul wanted to get to the bottom of what was going on for the sake of The Hilltop, but he wasn’t sure if the man’s reappearance would be a good or bad thing.

He swallowed another sip of his beer. Part of him didn’t want to think about work right now, but on the other hand Daryl was the only one he felt he could talk to about all this. It would be nice to get some of his worries off his chest.

“I’m not sure if it’s a good or bad sign that he hasn't shown up again,” Paul continued. “I mean, I know it’s only been a few weeks since then, but maybe it could mean he and Gregory settled their business.”

“You think it’s settled?” Daryl asked, voice soft and raspy.

Paul exhaled deeply through his nose. “I don't know, probably not. That’s why it could be good if he comes back, that way I can learn more about his relationship with Gregory.”

Daryl began brushing the fingers on his left hand together, thumb nervously moving across his index finger. “An’what if this asshole’s dangerous?” he said, stopping his movement to gesture with the same hand.

“I’m pretty sure I could take him,” Paul smirked. “Black belt, remember?”

“Karate ain’t gonna stop a gun,” Daryl rasped.

Paul stopped, realizing that the older man was being serious. _…Is he worried about me?_

His chest was too tight and suddenly he felt nervous under Daryl’s gaze.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Paul said. “Maybe he’s Gregory’s weed dealer.”

Daryl gave him a skeptical look.

“Gregory needs some mellowing out, believe me,” Paul continued, trying his best to lighten the mood. “Speaking of marijuana, I could use some myself.”

The older man snorted.

“You smoke?” Paul asked.

“Used’ta get high with Merle a lot. Now it’s just the cigs.”

The younger man leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “I used to every so often, but can’t exactly do that now that my closest friend is about to become a cop.”

“Tara?” Daryl asked.

Paul gave a soft smile. “That’s the one.”

With the mention of Tara, he remembered her party on Saturday. He’d been meaning to invite Daryl, but hadn’t had the opportunity to do so given their conflicting schedules. His stomach gurgled with nervousness again, although he wasn’t sure why. They were friends now. It shouldn’t feel like such a big deal.

“Tara’s actually having a get together at her apartment on Saturday,” Paul said, ignoring his thoughts. “It’ll just be me, her, Eugene and a few of her other friends.”

Daryl looked at him, unsure.

“You should come,” Paul finished.

The older man straightened his shoulders. He fiddled with his fingers again. “Nah, that’s alright.”

“I’m serious, you should. Tara’s been asking to meet you and I’m sure Eugene will want to talk about his windshield wipers.”

Daryl’s eyes faltered from Paul’s, his fingers still moving nervously. On one hand, Paul didn’t want the man to feel like he was obligated to come, but on the other he wanted Daryl to understand that his invitation was genuine and not just an empty offer for the sake of social etiquette.

“You don’t have to of course,” Paul added, “but you’re more than welcome to join if you’re free. We don’t do much but hang around, drink, and eat. It’ll be fun.”

They locked eyes again and Daryl shrugged one shoulder. “Ain’t it weird for them?”

Paul furrowed his brows. “Why is that?”

Daryl looked away, shrugging again. “Don’t they know?”

With those words, it hit Paul how Daryl must feel at the thought of being around his friends. The man already was embarrassed that he had to crash with Paul—a man he’d only met 6 weeks ago—due to his financial situation. He’d been mortified when Paul learned of his living arrangement at the garage. If Daryl assumed his friends knew all about this, he must feel humiliated. Being around them would only make it worse, especially if he thought they’d judge or dislike him. Paul’s stomach dropped with guilt.

“Tara does,” he said, voice soft and honest, “no one else. They just know you’re the guy who fixed my car and that we’re friends.”

The older man flicked his eyes to meet Paul’s wide ones. When he didn’t respond, Paul scooted his chair closer to the table and leaned forward, closing some of the space across the table between them.

“Daryl, no one thinks anything ill of you, I promise. I can tell them whatever you want—that you’re crashing until your new place is ready, that I was looking for a roommate and it just worked out that you needed one, or no one has to know you’re staying with me. Tara wouldn’t say anything.”

“Ain’t got to lie for me.”

“I don’t see it as lying, just not disclosing certain details.”

Based on his expression, Daryl seemed unconvinced.

“Look,” Paul continued, voice soft. “Even if they all knew the truth, it wouldn’t change anything. They know I like you and that’s all that matters.”

Lips soft and unmoving, Daryl dropped his eyes quickly and gave Paul a silent once over. He looked as nervous as Paul felt.

“If you’d rather not go I completely understand, but I swear it’s not what you think.”

Daryl exhaled through his nose. He lifted the hand that he’d been fiddling with and brought it to his mouth, now chewing on the side of his thumb. He nodded shyly.

Paul stood from the table, gathering his empty beer can and dirty napkin. He couldn’t help but feel that he’d fucked something up between them. Maybe he shouldn’t have invited him—it was too early on in their friendship.

As he tossed the can into the recycling and his napkin in the trash, he heard Daryl stand, pushing out his chair against the tile. He turned around to see him closing the pizza box that still had over half a pie inside.

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll clean it up.”

“Nah, I got it,” Daryl said, picking up the box and turning to the fridge. Paul watched as he opened it and bent to place it on the middle shelf, which had the most free room. His leather vest was tight over his long-sleeved flannel, and ends of his dark hair curled softly against the collar. After he fit the box inside, he closed the door and faced Paul again.

They stood awkwardly, not quite meeting each others’ eyes. Paul wasn’t used to feeling this way; typically he was quick on his feet and the right words came easily. Now, however, he was at a loss. Before he could begin piecing together something to say, Daryl’s voice filled the air.

“What time does it start?”

“What?” Paul blurted.

_Wow, real smooth. Great job._

Daryl looked down at his boots, shifting and straightening his shoulders. “Just if it’s during the day I’ll probably be at the shop.”

“Oh,” Paul blinked. “No, it’s not until nine. I have to work during the day too.”

The man across from him nodded and brought his thumb to his mouth again. He glanced upward, meeting Paul’s eyes.

“Does that mean you’ll come?” Paul asked gently, careful not to be too forward.

Daryl shrugged a shoulder and dropped his hand. “Alright.”

Paul smiled. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Saturday evening came quicker than Paul expected. His early shift at the bar was relatively quiet—it was a stereotypical hot Virginia day despite it being mid-October and many were outside rather than sticking inside at the bar—and Gregory was absent once again. When Paul returned home around seven thirty, the bathroom door was shut and he could hear the shower running.

A wave of warmth passed through Paul’s chest at the thought of Daryl wanting to get ready for the party. He smiled softly to himself as he walked into his room. Once there, he opened his closet and examined his clean clothes. Typically he wouldn’t think much about it, but he wanted to look relatively nice.

 _For Daryl,_ his mind added. His cheeks heated and he internally scolded himself for being so ridiculous. So what if he found Daryl attractive, that wasn’t going to happen. They barely just became friends.

Paul settled on dark skinny jeans, boots, and a white t-shirt. Even though it was already dark outside, it was still warm. Tara’s place tended to get pretty stuffy, so he wouldn't need a sweater or jacket. He placed the items as well as his boxers on the bed and folded them into a stack.

He heard the shower turn off and Paul inhaled. Aside from that first night Daryl slept over, they hadn’t been home at the same time to deal with any awkward timing issues when it came to using the bathroom. Paul wondered if Daryl had brought his clothes in the bathroom with him, or if he’d be changing in the living room near the couch. As far as Paul knew, the man was still living out of the garbage bag filled with clothes.

_I should offer the space in my closet again._

Paul’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening, and then footsteps padding onto the wooden living room floor. He heard the noise of rustling plastic and he knew Daryl was searching through the bag for his outfit. He figured he might as well wait a few minutes—he didn’t want to barge through the door and invade Daryl’s privacy.

After fifteen minutes, Paul thought he was probably safe. Gathering his pile of clothes into one arm, he walked to his closed bedroom door and knocked gently. “Hey, Daryl?”

He heard shifting sheets and squeaking springs. _He was sitting on the couch bed._ “Yeah?” came the man’s raspy voice behind his door.

“Are you decent? I just need to use the bathroom.”

“Oh, um,” Daryl cleared his throat. “M’good.”

Paul exhaled quickly and turned the doorknob, pulling open the door. Daryl was standing next to the end of the bed, facing Paul’s room. His throat suddenly felt very dry.

The taller man was wearing dark brown slacks, a pair that looked less worn than the pants he usually donned. The bottom edges were a bit torn where they hung over his boots, but it seemed like Daryl had tried to fold them so that the fraying wasn’t too visible. Moving his eyes up Daryl’s body, Paul focused his attention to his long-sleeved jean shirt. The item was a bit wrinkled and baggy at the end and sleeves, but it fit taught around his chest. The first few buttons were open, revealing a dark t-shirt he wore underneath. He’d probably be warm in all the layers, but Paul certainly wasn’t complaining. He looked…adorable.

Daryl’s hair was still drying in dark waves, bangs obscuring the dark circles under his narrow eyes. Paul’s eyes drifted to the beauty mark over his lips and scruff. He’d noticed it before, he just hadn’t really thought about it. It was nice.

Paul blinked as he realized he’d been blatantly checking out the man. Daryl was eyeing him strangely, clearly awkward under his gaze.

“Uh-um,” Paul cleared his throat. “Thanks, just going to shower.”

Daryl nodded.

He walked from his room into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. He turned on the shower quickly and pushed all the feelings in his chest away before stepping into the spray.

 

* * *

 

Around eight thirty, both he and Daryl were dressed and ready to go. Paul had opted not to wash his hair as it was still pretty clean, only brushing through to rid any stray knots. He pulled a hair tie around his wrist just in case he needed to put it up given the heat.

He pushed his wallet into his back pocket and grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter. “Ready to go?” he called to Daryl, who was sitting on the pull out bed, fiddling with his cell phone.

The man glanced up at Paul. “Yea,” he mumbled as he stood from the bed and walked into the kitchen. As he neared closer, he eyed the keys in Paul’s hand.

“No need for us to drive separately,” Paul said, anticipating Daryl’s thoughts. “Ready to take a ride in your favorite _piece of shit_?”

“I guess,” Daryl said.

“Unless you want me on the back of your bike,” Paul teased with a quirked brow.

The older man narrowed his eyes.

“Easy tiger,” Paul smirked, “C’mon, let’s go.”

He heard the man huff behind him as they exited the apartment.

 

* * *

 

As they drove to Tara’s house, Paul couldn’t help but glance over to the passenger’s seat every so often. Daryl sat back against the plush seat, one leg extended and one elbow resting on the door. Sometimes he brought his hand to brush against the scruff of his chin, sometimes he bit on his thumb. Paul had to actively remind himself to focus on the road ahead so he didn’t get so distracted.

Paul still hadn’t remembered to hook up his phone to the car so that he could play his music library, so he kept the radio on a local alternative rock station. After several minutes of no one talking, the younger man decided to break through its soft hum.

“I hope Tara’s ordering food. I’m starving.”

Daryl snorted from the other side of the car.

“What?” Paul asked, smirking.

“Y’sure eat a lot for someone so tiny.”

Internally he wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed that Daryl thought he was small, or pleased that the man was paying attention to his body type. He decided not to think too much into it and play along.

“I’m very athletic, Daryl. I work it off.”

“Just expected you to be one of those, I’unno, veggie people.”

Paul raised a brow, stifling a smile. “…Veggie people?”

“Y’know, only eat vegetables? What—why you laughin’ at me?”

“You mean a _vegetarian?_ ” Paul said through his chuckles.

“Yea, whatever. Same thing,” he growled.

The younger man looked over to see that the man’s cheeks were a bit red, but he had the ghost of a smirk on his lips as he looked out the window.

 _Adorable,_ Paul’s mind whispered. He mentally kicked himself.

“No, I’m not a vegetarian,” Paul said. “I don’t know, I’ve always had a fast metabolism, even when I was a kid. I’d eat a whole steak and two bowls of pasta like it was nothing. Although I was always running around or at karate lessons, so the calories kind of negated themselves.”

Daryl turned his head to look at Paul. “You were always into the martial arts stuff?”

“Yeah, it’s been a hobby of mine. Competed in high school.”

“You any good?”

“Try to kick my ass and you’ll find out,” Paul said, the words coming out a bit more suggestive than he’d intended.

Just then, [the guitar rift of a familiar song filled the air](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZtcz4WVBGg) from the radio.

Paul snorted a laugh as he realized what song it was. He reached out and turned the sound dial higher. “Do you remember this?”

Daryl gave him a confused look. “The song?”

“Yeah, it was huge like ten or so years ago,” Paul said, trying to remember the name on the tip of his tongue. “Ah— _The Darkness_.”

“S’that the song or the band?”

“The band.”

As the lead singer’s words filled the air, Paul began singing along.

_“Can’t explain all the feelings that you’re making me feel, my heart’s in over-drive and you're behind the steering wheel.”_

Paul heard Daryl snort next to him and he glanced over, smiling like an idiot. “Got something you wanna say, Dixon?”

Daryl was shaking his head, but he looked vaguely amused. “You’re ridiculous,” he rasped.

“Guilty as charged,” he said. Then, as the chorus started, _“I believe in a thing called love.”_

Even though he considered himself a decent singer, he definitely couldn’t hit the next notes. He stopped and chuckled instead. “Sorry,” he smirked, “I used to be obsessed with this song. God knows why.”

“You ain't that bad.”

Paul looked over at Daryl. It was his turn to snort. “Don’t flatter me.”

“Nah, m’serious. Maybe just don’t sing…whatever this is.”

The younger man felt his cheeks heat, but he ignored the possible compliment. “If you think this is bad, you should watch the music video. It’s a trip.”

“Yea, I’ll pass.”

Paul let silence reemerge between them during the final few minutes of their ride. He wasn’t expecting anything like that to happen—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d acted so…uninhibited around anyone. God knows he’d never sing around Tara. He’d been ‘friends’ with Daryl for nine whole days and here he was already making a fool of himself.

_Wonderful._

 

* * *

 

They rang the doorbell of Tara’s house ten minutes past nine. His friend opened the door and gave Paul a quick hug. When she pulled back, her eyes immediately fell on Daryl. She smiled, wide and genuine.

“Daryl, so glad you could make it.” She stepped down onto the front stairs and pulled him into a quick hug as well.

Daryl stiffened with awkwardness during the hug, but then pursed his lips in a brief smile when they pulled apart. “Thanks for uh, havin’ me.”

Tara glanced briefly at Paul knowingly, then returned her attentions to the taller man. “Come on in, you have to meet everyone,” she said, grabbing him by the arm.

Once inside, Eugene walked forward and stopped in front of the biker. “Are you Daryl, Jesus’ mechanic friend?”

Daryl gave a glance in Paul’s direction. Paul smirked and nodded quickly, sensing exactly what the man was thinking.

“Uh, yea,” he answered.

Eugene nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “If you don’t mind I have several questions regarding my windshield wipers I’d like to run by you.”

“Yea, uh, Paul told me,” he said, shaking Eugene’s hand. “No problem.”

Tara, who was now standing next to Paul, elbowed him in the arm when Daryl used his real name instead of Jesus. As Sasha and Rosita made their way to greet the new guest, Tara pulled Jesus into the kitchen.

“Holy shit, it makes so much sense now,” she whispered once they were far enough away.

“Tara,” Paul warned, glancing through the entry way to make sure no one was watching them. Eugene had already pulled Daryl aside and was explaining something animatedly.

“He called you Paul. No one calls you Paul.”

“I don’t think he knows that, it just sort of happened.”

Tara turned her head around, looking at the man in question. “I see what you meant by unconventionally attractive. Not that I’m an expert in this area, but he’s pretty hot like in an older guy, mysterious southern bad-boy kinda way.”

“Oh my god, Tara,” Paul said, shaking his head.

“What?” Tara said, turning back to Paul and smirking. “I know you think so too.”

Paul sighed. “Doesn’t matter what I think. I’m just trying to be his friend.”

Tara drifted her smirk into a soft smile.

“What?”

She shrugged, still smiling. “Nothing. Come on, let's rejoin them, shall we?”

Paul followed his friend as she walked back into the living room.

_This is going to be a long night._

 

* * *

 

Several plates of Chinese food and rounds of beer later, the group sat in the living room, laughing and chatting around the coffee table. Eugene had cornered Daryl for the majority of the night, and while Paul caught the man looking a bit uncomfortable in the beginning, it seemed like they were getting along well enough. Eugene did most of the talking, which melded well with Daryl’s reticent personality.

The two sat next to each other on the couch—Daryl at the end and Eugene turned toward him in the middle. Sasha reclined at the other end toward Rosita, who was sitting cross-legged in the Papasan chair. Tara had brought two dining chairs out from the kitchen and placed them on the other side of the coffee table, which is where she and Paul sat. Tara was laughing at something Sasha was saying, completely caught up in the three women’s conversation. Paul, on the other hand, was nursing a beer, trying his best not to stare across at Daryl.

It’s just, he looked really nice. He wanted to be the one sitting beside him, maybe close enough that their knees would touch.

 _Stop,_ Paul scolded himself internally. He’d had three beers so far and clearly he was a bit tipsy.

“Eugene,” Tara called, suddenly breaking Paul from his thoughts. “Let the man breathe a bit huh?”

The joke earned chuckles from Rosita and Sasha.

“I’m simply explaining my knowledge of internal combustion engines and seeing if it’s correct.”

“Why don’t you just Google it,” Rosita said, leaning back into the chair cushion.

“Point taken, but when you’re faced with a first-person encounter with an expert you can’t turn down the opportunity.”

Paul stifled a smile as he locked eyes with Daryl. He seemed embarrassed to suddenly be the center of attention, but still vaguely amused by the general conversation.

“Well Daryl’s certainly an expert,” Paul started, “He was able to fix my piece of junk.”

Tara chuckled. “Yeah man, how’d you figure that one out? That thing’s seen some shit.”

Daryl shrugged. “Don’t know, wasn’t that hard.”

Sasha leaned forward, looking around Eugene toward Daryl. “You don’t have to be modest. We’ve all ridden in that thing at some point. Whatever you did was a straight-up miracle.”

“Hey,” Paul said, mocking offense. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Nah, he’s lyin.’ Was pretty bad,” Daryl rasped.

Sasha and the rest of the room laughed. Tara glanced at him, a smug smile on her lips. He wanted to give her a warning look, because she shouldn’t get the wrong idea, but he was too tipsy to care. He was happy everyone was getting along.

Maybe Daryl understood now that no one cared about his situation. He wasn’t even sure if Tara had told them everything. It didn't matter, he guessed, as long as Daryl felt comfortable.

The rest of the night passed by quickly—they played a few embarrassing rounds of poker with a set of cards Eugene had in his pocket for some reason and swapped stories about life and work. Daryl was quiet for the most of the night, but Paul caught him smirking at the occasional ridiculous banter between Eugene, Tara, and Rosita. The younger man didn’t talk much himself: he kept getting distracted by the way Daryl’s lips fit over the neck of the Heineken he’d been nursing for the past half hour.

Soon enough it was time to leave, and the group said their goodbyes. Sasha was the first to leave, then Rosita and Eugene. After helping Tara clean up the mess, Daryl and Paul stood by the door.

“Well, thanks for coming by. It was really nice to meet you,” she said to Daryl.

“Thanks, me too.”

Tara smiled.

“And fuck you, you suck,” she teased Paul, pushing his shoulder with one hand.

“Ouch,” he frowned. "Fuck you too."

When they got to the car, Daryl stopped by the driver’s door. “You want me to drive?”

Paul only had four beers, but it’d been some time since his last and he was pretty sober by this point.

“Oh, I’m fine.”

Daryl raised a brow. “You sure?”

“What, do you want to drive?”

“Well I ain’t the tipsy one.”

They stood relatively close, only two feet or so between them. This near, Paul could see some of the lint on the t-shirt beneath his jean shirt, and the soft hairs of his scruff on his chin. His lips looked really soft.

_Alright, maybe I’m a little drunk._

“Worried about me, Dixon?”

“Worried you’ll crash us both into a pole, more like.”

“You have such a way with words.”

Paul sighed and dug into his back pocket for his keys. “Your wish is my command,” he said, handing them over to Daryl.

Their hands brushed briefly when Daryl took the item from him. Maybe it was just the alcohol, but even those few seconds felt electric.

“You know how to get back?” Paul asked as the man opened the driver’s seat door.

“Yea, I remember.”

Paul nodded. After Daryl shut the door, he walked to over to the passenger side.

 

* * *

 

The ride home was short—or maybe it just seemed short because Paul kept falling asleep against the door. Daryl had turned the radio off at some point and it started to rain, and the soft patter kept lulling him in and out of consciousness.

At some point his body registered that they weren’t moving anymore. He heard words, but couldn’t quite place what they were saying. He felt something warm on his shoulder and opened his eyes.

Daryl had been shaking him with one hand, which was now pulling back from his t-shirt clothed shoulder. “Paul, wake up.”

“Hm?” he said, eyes finally focusing on the man across from him. It was dark in the car, and only the yellow-hued lights from the dashboard illuminated his form.

“We’re here.”

Paul smiled involuntarily. “Thanks.”

Daryl chewed on his lips and nodded. Then he got out of the car and walked to the other side, opening the door for Paul.

“My personal chauffeur,” he said as he exited his seat, feet only a little wobbly as he stood. “I could get used to this.”

The older man snorted.

As they made their way back up to the apartment, Paul’s mind was stuck on what he’d said a few minutes earlier. It had been a joke in the moment, but a sense of something equally terrifying and warming emerged as he realized that yeah, he could really get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this one as much as I enjoyed writing it! Let me know your thoughts below. Comments are always appreciated and help me write faster. :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some minor references to homophobic slurs at the end of the chapter.

Come late October, the stifling southern heat finally eased into a cool, autumn chill.

Paul pulled the hoodies, sweaters, and cardigans that he’d stuffed into the bottom drawer of his bureau over the summer and hung them up in his closet for easy access. On the mornings he was able to sleep in, he made a cup of tea and sat on his bed near the window, hot mug in one hand and a paperback in the other. He liked curling up in a sweatshirt at night and thanked the universe he could now keep his hair down during the day without it sticking to the back of his neck in a layer of hot sweat.

The weather wasn't the only thing that had changed over the past two weeks—Daryl had eased into something different as well. Ever since Tara’s party, his roommate seemed more comfortable in the apartment. He finally accepted the younger man’s offer to house his clothing in his bedroom closet, worn flannels and slacks now neighbors to Paul’s cardigans and sweatshirts. Daryl started sleeping later too; often the biker was still rolled up in the couch sheets when Paul would pad into the kitchen in the morning to make tea, his brown hair splayed messily over the pillow as he slept.

Unless he had to work late at the shop, Daryl was home when Paul returned each night. Sometimes the man was already asleep on the pull-out couch if Paul arrived from a late shift, sometimes he was still awake. The younger man had noticed Daryl had been staying up later, usually on the couch-bed watching tv. Apparently the man had a soft spot for the Discovery Channel.

Tonight was one of those nights—Paul arrived at the apartment just past twelve and Daryl was still awake, sitting on the pull out bed. However, this time he wasn't watching _Deadliest Catch_ or _Mythbusters_. Instead, he sat at the edge of the couch nearest the wall, leaning down and examining a tall pile of books Paul had left there.

Daryl broke his gaze and looked up when the younger man walked into the apartment. Clearly flustered that Paul had caught him snooping, he cleared his throat and straightened into a seated position.

"Hey," he said, rubbing his hands over his jean-clad thighs.

Paul quirked a brow as he shut the door behind him. "Admiring my collection?"

Daryl's cheeks pinked. "Sorry, s'just you got a lot of them.”

"Don't be, feel free to read whatever you’d like,” Paul answered.

After a quick scan of his apartment, Paul realized Daryl must think he was some crazy hoarder: practically every free wall space was stacked with books. He'd kept things neat now that he had a roommate, but organization didn't mask the overall volume.

"You read 'em all?" Daryl asked.

Paul sighed, dropping his keys off at the counter before sitting in one of the kitchen chairs facing Daryl. "Not all, but most."

He gestured his head toward the pile that Daryl had been looking at. "I've finished all these, and over there, in the opposite corner, those are the ones I haven't read yet. The ones along the back wall are other editions of books I’ve already read, but not those particular editions.”

The older man furrowed his brows. “Hold up. You got more than one copy of the same book? Ain’t it all the same words?”

"Depending on the work, sometimes the text is edited from edition to edition. Sometimes there are special forewords and afterwords to give a wider context or analysis,” Paul explained. “But personally it’s more about the experience for me. I feel something new with every edition, whether it’s because the book is decades old or just has a completely different binding—its about the physical presence, if you will.”

Daryl’s expression had softened from its earlier confusion, but he stayed silent, eyes watching Paul with quiet interest. The look caused a small warmth to tingle in the younger man’s chest; He’d expected Daryl to return his ramble with one of his eye-narrows or amused snorts, not a soft gaze. Paul flicked his eyes from Daryl’s and stood from the chair, suddenly flustered.

“Is there one you’re interested in reading?” he asked, changing the subject. He walked toward the book pile the biker had been eyeing earlier.

Daryl fiddled the fingers on his left hand. “Don't know. Ain’t ever read that much.”

“Well,” Paul said, letting out a breath as he squatted to get on level with the stack, “What genres do you like?”

“I’unno,” Daryl shrugged, voice soft. “Somethin’ with adventure?”

Paul stifled a small smile at Daryl’s answer. His tone was sweet—innocent, almost.

He scanned the pile, searching for something that would pique Daryl’s interest. He didn’t want to recommend anything too long, as that might be a bit overwhelming for someone who didn't read regularly. He skipped his eyes over each book until found the best option. Removing several books from the top of the pile, he separated them into a new stack and pulled out a large hardcover. He extended the book to Daryl, who accepted it quietly.

“ _The Hobbit._ It’s a classic,” Paul said.

Daryl looked down at the book. Paul had bought that edition several years back—it wasn’t rare by any means, but the gold-fluted designs on the leathery cover made it seem authentic. There were even hand-painted illustrations inside after certain passages. He wasn’t sure why, but he thought Daryl would enjoy that.

“Have you read it before?” Paul asked.

“Nah,” Daryl rasped. Then, “Ain’t it a movie or somethin’?”

Paul quirked his brow. “Trust me, those don’t do the book justice. The Lord of the Rings films were much better.”

“Ain’t seen ‘em.”

“Wait, really?” Paul asked, genuinely surprised. Most people his age had watched at least one of them given their popularity. Daryl was a bit older than him, but not so much that’d he wouldn’t have been aware of the films. Though he guessed the biker wasn't exactly a pop culture enthusiast.

Daryl shrugged a shoulder. “Merle an’ his friends didn’t watch movies unless they had guns and girls in it.”

Paul raised his brows—partly in surprise at the man’s comment and partly to seem amused, but behind his expression his stomach sunk. The thought of Daryl watching some raunchy action film filled with large-breasted women made him want to knock back several shots of whiskey. “And was that your preference as well?” he asked, ignoring his unsettled stomach.

Daryl lifted his eyes to meet Paul’s, then shrugged and looked away. “Didn’t care, just followed them usually.”

Paul nodded, knot in his gut easing slightly.

“Should I watch those before readin’ this?” Daryl asked then, voice soft.

Paul inhaled, pushing away his thoughts of Daryl and women. “Well, this occurs before the events of those movies,” he said. “I prefer to read and watch things in chronological order, but either way would work I think.”

Daryl nodded, flipping the book around to examine the back cover.

“I just finished re-reading _The Lord of the Rings_ a few weeks back actually—I have several copies if you want to continue reading the series. I also have all the movies on DVD,” Paul offered. He stopped talking afterward, cheeks heating slightly. _You’re rambling again, Rovia._

“Thanks,” Daryl said. He glanced down at Paul a moment later, who was still squatted on the floor next to the book piles. “You sure it’s okay I read this?”

Paul smiled gently. “Yes, I’m sure. You’re welcome to borrow whatever book you like.”

Daryl broke their gaze and returned his eyes to the book. “Nah, this one’s good.”

The smaller man stood then, clearing his throat. “Well, I should shower and get to bed.”

Daryl looked up, eyes meeting Paul’s once more. “Alright.”

They exchanged goodnights before Paul padded into his bedroom and grabbed a t-shirt, sweatpants, and clean boxers. After he walked out and into the bathroom, he turned on the shower and stripped off his dirty clothes. The cool air was refreshing against his sweaty, bare skin—it’d been a long day at the bar—but after several seconds he felt a chill run up his spine. Sticking one hand under the spray, he was satisfied with the level of warmth and finally stepped into the tub. Paul let the hot water run over his head onto his shoulders, easing release from his tired muscles and soaking his greasy hair.

Turning, he let the water hit the side of his neck and back as he rested his forehead against the shower tile. He wasn’t sure what the hell happened out there. He’d felt almost nauseous thinking about Daryl watching those movies with his brother and friends. He shouldn’t be surprised, really, given rural Georgia and what he knew about Merle through Daryl’s confessions. It wasn’t a big deal, anyway—who cared what the man watched in the past?

Paul sighed. Denial was futile; he knew Daryl tagging along on his brother’s hetero-bro movie outings wasn’t the root of his disappointment. It wasn’t even like the Lord of the Rings trilogy had any particular groundbreaking representation either, but Paul had always loved the plot and mythology of the books.

He shook his head from the wall and rubbed his hands over his face. This wasn’t about movies or literature. It was about the fact that Daryl probably liked women. Not he couldn’t like men as well, but given all he knew about the man Paul didn’t think Daryl grew up in an environment where that would have been accepted. Paul was the last person to stereotype anyone’s sexuality, but he had no idea if it was possible for Daryl to like men. Sometimes he had his suspicions—kind of like when Daryl gave him that look earlier—but it could mean absolutely nothing. Even if Daryl could like guys, maybe he didn’t know that yet.

At the end of the day, it wasn’t his business. Yes, he was attracted to Daryl, but he shouldn’t let that get in the way of their friendship. Paul cared about Daryl, and would even if he were straight, bi, gay, or anything else. He needed to stop getting so worked up over nothing.

After he finished and changed, he quietly walked out into the living area. The apartment was dark save for the lamp light near the door. Paul walked barefoot to turn it off, but not before noticing Daryl on the couch bed. The man was asleep on his back, head resting on two pillows and his legs covered with blankets. Next to him laid _The Hobbit_ —he must have read a chapter or so before falling asleep because he’d placed it open and face down onto of the comforter. Paul felt his chest tighten a bit before he flipped off the light and walked into his bedroom.

He lay in bed for about an hour without being able to rest. Finally he gave up and pulled his phone and headphones from the bedside table where they’d been plugged into his laptop. He put on a quiet playlist and forced himself to concentrate on the nose so he’d fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

Halloween came two days later. Paul always had to work late on the holiday given the volume of customers and this year was no different. The staff always dressed up as well, and each year Paul was the same thing: Jesus.

He’d bought the long toga costume from an online shop years ago and it still looked fine. Even though he dressed the same every year, the clientele never seemed to get sick of it. If he had a dollar for every time he heard “you actually look like Jesus” or “turn my water into wine” from drunk kids he’d have enough money to pay his rent for several months.

The bar was packed full of college students in scantily clad and bizarre costumes—so far the weirdest he’d seen was a kid in a Gumby costume and a pair in ketchup and mustard suits. At second glance, Paul realized the pair was Nick and Brock—Brock in the mustard and Nick in the ketchup.

The staff had cleared all the table tops to create a dance floor. As the majority of the crowd slithered against each other to a popular EDM song, the pair walked over to the bar.

“Well well well, if it isn’t my favorite condiments,” Paul said with a smirk.

Brock laughed, smile wide and bright. He then opened his arms enthusiastically as he took in Jesus’ costume. “Dude, you actually look like Jesus!”

“He always looks like Jesus, Brock, that’s why people call him that,” Nick added, visibly less enthused than his friend to be wearing a ridiculous condiment costume.

“Whatever man, what’s up? You like our costumes?” Brock yelled at Paul over the booming music.

Paul lifted an amused brow. “Hilarious,” he said with a glance at Nick, who gave him a knowing look. "What can I get you two?"

“I’ll have a Bud Light,” Brock said over the crowd, who had started signing along with the song’s chorus. He put an arm around Nick’s shoulders. “What you want man?”

Nick breathed in, obviously shaken by the body contact. Brock didn’t seem to notice anything. “I’ll have the same I guess,” he answered.

“Coming right up,” Paul said. He turned around to the fridge and pulled out two cans.

After Brock handed the bartender his cash, a girl dressed as a sexy waitress walked out from the dance floor and came up behind him. “Babe, what the hell? Come dance,” she whined, pulling his arm with a drunken smile.

 _Angela_ , Paul remembered.

“Okay okay, I’m comin’,” Brock laughed. He pulled his arm from Nick and bent down to kiss her on the lips. He took his beer from the bar ledge and put his arm around her waist as she led him into the crowd.

Paul looked at Nick, whose face had dropped into a sullen expression. The look struck something in Jesus and suddenly his mind was picturing Daryl in the bar, arms wrapped around some pretty brunette as he kissed her. His stomach sunk and he considered taking a swig from the bottle of Tito’s sitting in front of him.

“Hey, you alright?”

The bartender shook himself out of his reverie and noticed that Nick was staring at him, concerned look on his face. He was holding several bills in his hand, presumably waiting for Paul to accept them.

_How long have I been zoned out?_

“Jesus?”

Paul waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”

Nick raised his brows. “Why?”

Paul glanced over into the crowd where he could see Brock’s tall mustard costume. Nick followed his gaze and his face immediately reddened. When his eyes met Paul’s again, it was clear the kid understood that Paul knew.

“Uh, thanks,” Nick said before taking the beer and pocketing his money.

Paul gave a sad smile. “Anytime.”

Nick walked off into the crowd.

Paul swallowed the lump in his throat. He knew he had no logical reason to feel so upset about this—he and Daryl were just friends, and new friends at that. He was being ridiculous, but his chest and stomach didn’t seem to get the memo. In that moment, he wanted to be anywhere than working at the bar and wearing a goddamn stupid costume for Gregory.

As if on cue, Gregory walked out from the back of the bar. He looked visibly flustered as his eyes darted through the bar. When they locked on a specific spot near the door, Paul turned his head to find what he was looking at.

The mustached man.

Paul’s eyes widened and his heart beat faster in his chest. The mustached man gestured his head toward the door before turning around and walking through it into the parking lot. Gregory followed, his expression one of trepidation rather than his usual entitled indignation.

He needed to get out there. This could be his chance to find out what the fuck is going on once and for all.

Before he could move from his post, a group of girls crowded around the bar where he stood.

“Can we have eight shots of vodka?” a tall blonde girl toward the front said, distracting Paul from his view of the door. She was wearing cat ears and had whiskers drawn on her cheeks.

Paul flicked his eyes to the door and then around the room to see if Kal or anyone else was near to cover for him. He couldn’t just leave a group of customers at an unattended bar, especially on such a busy night like Halloween.

_Fuck._

He’d finish this order quickly then find Kal to cover.

“Sure,” Paul said, grabbing several shot glasses from the stack nearest him. He picked up the bottle of Tito’s he’d been eyeing earlier and poured it into each as fast as he could.

“I’m Trisha,” the girl added, leaning suggestively on the bar. “I have to say, I never thought I’d think Jesus was hot, but here we are…”

Paul looked at her with an unamused expression. “Yeah, I’m gay.”

While ordinarily he’d play along to a certain degree to keep the customers happy and earn a few tips, he wasn't in the mood tonight for a variety of reasons.

The girl looked confused and taken aback like she wasn’t sure if Paul was kidding or being serious. He suspected she wasn’t used to being turned down either.

“That’ll be $24.”

Trisha gave an awkward smile and then leaned down to retrieve the cash from her bag. Paul accepted the money and then the girls took their respective shot glasses. As they grouped together to clink their drinks together and cheer before taking the shots, Kal walked into the bar area with a tray of clean glasses.

“Kal,” Paul said, waving the man over.

His coworker placed the tray down on the ledge. “What’s up?”

“Need you to cover for me for a few minutes,” Paul said hurriedly.

“You alright?” Kal said with furrowed brows.

“I’m fine. Just five minutes, okay?”

Kal shrugged. “Yea, whatever.”

Paul gave a quick nod before pacing outside the bar and pushing through the crowd to get outside through the front door.

When he pushed the door open, a swell of cold air hit against his hot skin. The parking lot was dark save for the neon lights of the bar, and a few customers huddled near the walls smoking. Paul looked around, trying to spot Gregory and the man, but he didn’t see anyone. He hopped down the front steps and began walking around to the back alley. Maybe they were talking there again.

As he turned the corner, he came face to face with Gregory. The mustached man was nowhere to be seen.

The taller man’s eyes widened as he stopped suddenly to avoid walking into Paul. His surprised expression quickly turned to one of anger.

“What are you doing out here, Jesus?” Gregory said, voice a hoarse whisper.

Paul tightened his jaw. He was done tip-toeing around this bullshit. “Who is he?”

Gregory tensed, then painted on a look of confusion. “Have you been drinking on the job? I’m not seeing anyone but us here.”

“I’m not an idiot. He came in and asked for you a few weeks ago. I’ve seen you with him before. Is something going on I should be aware of?”

The older man pressed his lips into a thin line. He stepped into Paul’s space, hovering over him. “That’s none of your business, you understand?”

“Maybe it’s not, but if it puts the bar at risk—”

“Oh don’t get all high and mighty with me, Jesus. Do your job and stop putting your nose where it doesn’t belong. Or you won’t have a job anymore.”

The man pushed past Paul, knocking into his shoulder before he walked away.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Paul cursed, alone in the side alley.

He ran a hand through the hair at the top of his head. Could he have ruined his chances of figuring this out by confronting Gregory? He should have lied, told him that he was taking a call or going for a piss again. He was being too impulsive, he was too upset—

Exhaling through his nose, Paul turned around and began walking back to the front entrance. Kal would be wondering where he was.

 

* * *

 

Paul returned home just before three in the morning. Clean up had taken longer than usual given the dance floor, and it was just him and Kal doing the work after Gregory bailed early. Probably because of his impulsive confrontation.

_I’m such a fucking idiot._

When he unlocked the door of his apartment, the lamp was still on, illuminating the room in a soft glow. Daryl was awake reading _The Hobbit_ on the pull-out couch.

Paul hadn’t expected the man to be up this late and he stood surprised for a moment as their eyes met. The older man’s gaze traveled down his body and his expression turned into one of confusion and vague amusement.

He glanced down to figure out what Daryl was starting at and realized he was still wearing the Jesus costume.

_Oh, wonderful._

“I have to dress up as Jesus every Halloween. Apparently it’s hilarious,” Paul said without enthusiasm. He shut the door a little too hard and walked into the living area.

Daryl placed the book down onto the bed and sat up, turning his legs to hang over the edge so he was facing Paul. “They make you do that?”

“Well just Gregory really. At first I thought it was funny too, but you know, it gets tiring after several years,” he said as he pulled the toga over his head, revealing the white t-shirt and jeans he'd worn underneath. His hair probably looked ridiculous and staticky now but he couldn’t really care. He wasn’t in the mood.

He tossed the white garb into his bedroom through the open door and walked into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. After he filled his cup from the faucet, he heard Daryl come into the kitchen as well.

“You okay?” the man asked.

Paul turned to face the man. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t seem fine.”

Their eyes met and Paul felt a swell of emotion in his chest as he took in the sight of the man before him. His shower-damp hair was drying in soft waves and he was wearing one of the sleep shirts Paul had loaned him. His mind then flashed to his earlier vision of Daryl kissing a woman in the bar. Paul closed his eyes, bringing his forefinger and thumb to rub the bridge of his nose. He was exhausted and his brain wasn’t working right.

“S’it the costume?”

“No,” Paul sighed. “I mean, yeah I hate it, but it’s not that.”

The smaller man opened his eyes and looked at Daryl. The biker was watching him gently, brows furrowed. Paul sighed and walked over to the kitchen table and sat down on one of the chairs.

“I saw the man at the bar again,” he admitted. _There’s no way in hell I’m bringing up…that other stuff._

Daryl stiffened his shoulders, lips in a tight line. “What happened?” he asked, gravelly voice laced with concern.

“I confronted Gregory about it.”

The older man stepped toward the table and took a seat next to him. “What’d he say?”

“Just that it wasn’t any of my business. Then he walked off.”

“What about the other guy? He say anythin’ to ya’?”

“No. He didn’t see me. I tried to follow him outside, but when I got there Gregory was already alone.”

Daryl chewed on the inside of his lips, eyes focused on Paul.

“It was a mistake,” the younger man said softly after a moment of silence. “Gregory will probably stop having meetings at the bar now.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing.”

Paul looked up, meeting Daryl’s eyes. “What if Gregory is doing something illegal? What if it puts the bar and the people in it at risk? I can’t let that happen.”

“All of that ain’t on you.”

Paul ran a hand through his hair. “I feel like it is.”

Their eyes met, Daryl’s blue ones clearer than Paul had ever seen them before. “I’m sorry,” Paul sighed. “It’s just late and my exhaustion is making me paranoid.”

Daryl straightened in his seat. “We can follow him, figure out where he’s goin’ after work.”

_We?_

The younger man raised a brow and felt a smirk play at his lips. “While I’d love to know what Gregory is up to, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

Daryl shrugged. “Whatever. Guy sounds like a fuckin’ asswipe.”

Paul huffed out an involuntary chuckle. “That he is.”

Daryl began chewing on his thumb and Paul looked away, eyes catching on the opened book sitting on the bed.

“How’s The Hobbit?” Paul asked, changing the subject.

The taller man blinked, confused for a moment before realizing what Paul was referencing. “Haven’t gotten that far…takes me some time to read through it,” he rasped.

“Yeah, Tolkien can be a bit verbose. Do you like it though?”

“Mhm,” Daryl hummed. “S’cept Bilbo is a stupid name.”

Paul smiled, the first genuine one he’d had all day. “Wait until you meet Gollum.”

“A what?”

The younger man laughed. “You’ll see.”

Their eyes met again and they stayed there for several seconds, just looking at each other. After a moment Daryl cleared his throat and stood up. “Gonna have a smoke.”

Paul looked up. “Okay. It’s chilly out, just so you know.”

“Thanks,” Daryl rasped before toeing on his boots and grabbing his leather vest from where he’d left it on the bed. He picked up a pack of Marlboros from the side table near the couch and pushed it into the pocket of his sweatpants.

“I’ll probably be asleep when you get back,” Paul said before the man walked out the door.

Daryl turned at looked at him. He nodded once. “Alright. ‘Night.”

Paul exhaled. “Goodnight.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next few weeks passed without incident. Work was normal and the mysterious man hadn’t returned since Halloween night. Gregory spent more time doing his actual job, and there was nothing Paul could observe about his behavior that indicated any illegal collusion.

Daryl spent more time at the shop—he’d gotten a few new clients (including Eugene, who’d finally showed up with his broken windshield wipers after a few weeks) and stayed there later to work. Paul was genuinely glad the man’s business was picking up, but he couldn’t help but feel a a bit disappointed as well. It was nearing two months since Daryl moved in, and now that he was getting more cash maybe he’d want to leave. That was completely his choice and Paul wouldn’t ever make him feel obligated to stay, but they’d sort of fallen into a routine together. Paul…liked it. It felt normal, stable.

November was even colder than October, and come mid-month Paul finally had to break out his heavier coats and jackets. Holiday commercials started playing on television, and the streets of their town had began stringing up Christmas lights on lampposts and trees. While many people found the season cheery and exciting, Paul continued on with his life as usual.

It wasn’t that Paul wasn’t a holiday person in theory, but ever since he moved from New York he hadn’t really had a proper family celebration. One year after he first moved down to Virginia he made the trek up to Syracuse visit his family, but that had been a fucking disaster. Now he made a few phone calls and called it a day.

Tara and her group of friends typically went home for Christmas, but Thanksgiving could go either way. Sometimes they had “Friendsgiving” at Eugene’s. The man was obsessed with cooking the turkey for some reason, but Paul wasn't complaining because he was surprisingly good at it. This year, however, Tara was joining Rosita at her family’s celebration in Texas. Sasha was visiting family in D.C., and Eugene was having his parents and an uncle over his place. While Paul appreciated all their offers for him to join, he politely declined. For all his charm and easygoing conversational skills, he’d just feel like a complete outsider around their families. He hated feeling like the kid with nowhere to go who _so and so_ had to bring along because they felt bad.

Usually the group went out on Thanksgiving Eve as well, but since Tara and Rosita were flying out that day only Sasha and Eugene were around to go out. Paul accepted that offer because he actually didn't have to work and hey, who didn't like getting drunk before being alone on a holiday supposedly about being with family.

Well, maybe he wouldn't be completely alone.

At the thought, Paul wondered if Daryl planned on going back to Georgia to be with his friends—he had mentioned a while back that he'd celebrated with them in the past. The man hadn't brought it up, so a week before the holiday Paul broached the subject.

They were both in the kitchen, Daryl washing a plate in the sink and Paul sitting at the table drinking a mug of tea. They’d been chatting about one of Daryl’s new clients and the conversation had lulled to a natural stop.

"Hey, are you going back to Georgia next week?" he asked then, trying his best to sound casual and not like he’d been thinking about it for the past week and a half.

Daryl shut off the faucet and turned his head around. He was drying his hands on a towel. "Hm?"

"Oh, I was just asking if you were going back to Georgia next week for Thanksgiving.”

The man turned around completely, dropping the towel next to the sink. "Nah."

“No plans?”

Daryl shrugged, eyes flicking away to a random spot on the floor. “Rick invited me but I didn’t want to go all the way back. Too busy here.”

Paul hummed in understanding. He had a feeling Daryl’s newfound clients weren’t the real reason he wasn’t going back, but he was the last to judge. He had his own reasons for avoiding going home. 

"You visitin' family?" Daryl asked, returning his eyes to the younger man.

"Nope. I'll be here as always.”

Daryl nodded.

"Actually," Paul started, shifting in his chair, “I was wondering if you wanted to come out with us for Thanksgiving Eve.”

“That’s a thing?”

“Yeah, we just go bar hopping and get really drunk. Tara and Rosita won’t be around so it’ll just be us, Eugene, and Sasha.”

“Alright.”

Paul gave a soft smile. “Cool.”

 

* * *

 

“We’re doing shots.”

Paul raised his brows, a bit uneasy at his friend’s request. As much as he was around alcohol on a daily basis, it’d been a while since he’d personally done any shots. Sasha seemed to be a fan though and was adamant they all do one before the night ended. Paul already had several drinks and beers at the other bars they’d attended during their outing, and a shot might just push him over from “pretty tipsy” to “definitely drunk.” What was Thanksgiving Eve for if not getting wasted, though?

Before he could formally give a response, Sasha was already at the bar ordering four shots of tequila. Daryl and Eugene stood next to him in the crowd, Eugene drawling out some story about a time he’d built a stereo from an old piano keyboard. Daryl kept glancing Paul’s way and the younger man gave him knowing smirks in response.

“But when I plugged it in, only the left speaker functioned, which as you may surmise had me quite puzzled. It took me three hours to realize one of the original piano wires had torn.”

“Are you telling the radio story again?” Sasha interrupted with a raised brow as she rejoined the group, four shots of tequila in hand. She handed each one out.

“It was a fully functional stereo,” Eugene corrected before leaning down and sniffing the small glass. He frowned.

Sasha shook her head with a smirk. “Anyway, cheers to a good night. Thanks for comin’ out guys.”

They all raised their shots together. Paul took his quickly, cringing as he felt the tangy burn slide down his throat. When he was finished, he watched as Daryl brought the glass up to his own lips and knocked it back in one go, throat bobbing as he swallowed. His skin looked soft and warm.

That had been happening a lot all night, Paul unconsciously looking at Daryl. The man’s shoulders were wide and strong under the leather jacket and vest he wore over his flannel shirt. His hair was dark and wild, bangs parting in wisps over his narrow blue eyes, and his light scruff looked soft in the hazy light of the bar. Paul knew he’d been staring, but the older man hadn’t noticed. Probably because he was too busy attempting to pay attention to Eugene’s stories.

This bar was playing loud dance music, and after Sasha finished her shot she cocked her head toward Eugene and linked their arms together. “Let’s dance.”

“Me?” Eugene said, surprised. “I’ll warn you I have a history of poor physical coordination.”

“I’ll teach you, let’s go,” she said before pulling the man into the crowd near the dance floor. She glanced back at Paul and gave him a wink.

Paul swallowed. _What the hell was that supposed to mean?_

The younger man returned his attention to Daryl, who he could tell was uncomfortable by the way he kept his hands in his pockets and avoided making eye contact. While the other bars had been low key, this place was filled with younger adults and college kids. It wasn’t exactly a locale he’d ever expected Daryl to frequent.

“Do you need a smoke?” Paul said over the loud music.

Daryl looked confused.

“I could use some air,” Paul added.

He hadn’t really thought his plan through, but his mind was a muddled from the alcohol and he didn’t want Daryl to feel shitty in this bar if he didn’t like it. Maybe he needed a break.

“Okay,” Daryl nodded.

When the arrived outside they walked down the block and away from the line of customers waiting to get into the bar. There was a small green area around the corner and Paul slumped down onto a wooden bench.

“Ugh,” he sighed, head spinning. “I’m definitely drunker than I thought.”

The older man sat beside him, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and lighter. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. The air is good.”

Daryl eyed him gently before placing the stick into his mouth and cupping his hands around the lighter. He lit up and exhaled the smoke, puffs of grey filtering into the crisp autumn air.

“Don’t puke on me,” Daryl rasped, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and holding it between his fingers.

Paul smiled. “I’ll aim for the sidewalk, don’t worry.”

Daryl smirked softly before taking another hit of his cigarette.

“Are you having fun?” Paul asked then, mind blurting out the first thing it thought of. “I’m sorry if you're not. I know Eugene can be a bit much, but he means well.”

“Nah, he’s alright,” Daryl said. “And yea, it’s been fun.”

“Don’t lie to me, Dixon. You looked miserable in there.”

The biker exhaled smoke and sighed. “Just ain’t my kinda place, that’s all.”

“Mine either,” Paul admitted. “Although I feel like working as a bartender has tainted pretty much every bar for me, can’t enjoy it as much knowing what goes on behind the scenes.”

Daryl hummed. Then after several beats of silence, “Do ya’ usually go out like this before Thanksgiving?”

“Mhm. I’m usually alone the next day so it doesn’t matter if I’m hungover. Or the group has dinner at Eugene’s so I have most of the day to recover.”

The older man was looking at him strangely and Paul raised a brow. “What?”

“Nothin.’”

“Spit it out, Dixon.”

Daryl took a drag and exhaled. “S’just, assumed you’d be with family or somethin'.”

Paul glanced at him. “Why?”

“D’unno,” Daryl shrugged.

The smaller man looked away and leaned his head back on the bench, looking up at the stars. “Haven’t celebrated a holiday with my family in years.”

“They in New York?” Daryl asked. Paul was surprised he remembered.

“Yeah. Tried to go back once. Ended with my dad throwing me out.”

Paul closed his eyes. He hadn’t meant to say that.

Daryl was still beside him, cigarette now idle in his hand.

“Sorry, I uh. Well it’s just he and I never got along well,” Paul continued, hazy mind taking control. “He’s a traditional guy and I’m, well, not. We were always arguing about something. God, you should have seen his face when I came out to him and my mom,” he said with a joyless laugh. “Looked like he’d seen a ghost. They both warmed up to it after a while, but I always suspected my father thought it was just a phase, something I’d grow out of eventually.

About a year after I moved down here, I went back for Christmas. My parents got into this huge argument, and I ended up telling my father to fuck off in defense of my mother. He got upset and called me, uh he called me a pretty nasty slur. He’s apologized to me many times over the years, explained that he didn't mean it, that it was a mistake. I forgave him after some time but I haven’t gone back since. I can’t.”

Sighing, Paul closed his eyes again and rubbed one hand over his face. He’d never told anyone about that in his life—not Tara, not Alex, not any of his friends. Hell, he barely let himself think about it.

His head was spinning, his throat was tight, and his stomach felt uneasy. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m just really fucking drunk.”

He heard rustling beside him. “C’mon,” came Daryl’s quiet voice. “I’ll take ya’ home.”

Paul opened his eyes and saw Daryl standing above him. The man looked like he was whirling, but he knew that was just the alcohol. He pushed himself up from the bench, but wobbled doing so.

“Easy,” Daryl murmured. He placed on hand at the small of his back. It was strong but soft at the same time. “Follow me, okay?”

Paul nodded. The walked back to the main street and Daryl hailed a cab.

 

* * *

 

The cab ride wasn’t long, but it was bumpy. As they walked into the dark apartment, Paul knew it wouldn’t be long until he puked up his guts. He beelined for the bathroom and knelt over the toilet. He gagged almost immediately, bile catching in his throat and the contents of his stomach piling out into the water below him.

He hadn't gotten sick in a long time—he knew he shouldn’t have done that last shot—and his eyes teared up as the stomach acid stung his throat. His head was still spinning and he felt another wave of sickness bubble up from his stomach.

As he gagged, he felt something warm radiate near him.

It was Daryl, sitting on the floor next to him. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, but his cheeks flamed with embarrassment as he thought about Daryl watching him in this state.

“S’alright,” Daryl said, voice soft. “Better to get it out.”

Paul choked up more vomit and he felt Daryl’s hand in his hair, pushing it out of the way and holding it back.

“I’m sorry,” Paul mumbled after he finished. He was beyond mortified.

“Nothin’ to be sorry for,” Daryl whispered.

After another few waves, Paul’s stomach was empty and his head felt clearer. He rested his forehead against the toilet seat.

“This is gross,” he mumbled. _My beard probably has vomit in it, wonderful._

Daryl snorted next to him. His hand was no longer in Paul’s hair. He missed the feeling.

“You feel any better?” the man asked after a moment.

Paul lifted his head from the toilet seat and looked at the man. He’d removed his jacket and vest at some point and was just wearing his flannel, the sleeves pushed up past his elbows. The tips of his ears peeked out from behind his messy dark locks. He looked tired, but soft. In his hands was a glass of water. He had no idea when he’d gotten it or how long he’d been sitting there with it.

Daryl must have noticed him eyeing the water because he extended his arm, handing him the cup. “Here,” he murmured.

“Thanks,” the younger man said before taking a sip.

Daryl shifted next to him. “You think you’re done or you got more comin’?”

“I think I’m done. Let me just brush my teeth.”

“Okay,” he said before standing. “You need help getting up?”

Paul shook his head and pushed himself up from the toilet. He braced himself with one arm against the sink and picked up his toothbrush. Daryl stood and watched him. When he finished, the two walked from the bathroom—Paul slowly leading the way and Daryl following behind.

“Where you keep your aspirin?” Daryl asked once they got into the kitchen.

“Top left cabinet near the sink.”

As Daryl went searching for the meds, Paul hazily walked into the living room. He needed to lay down, get his head on something soft. He sat down onto Daryl’s couch-bed and reclined backwards, resting his head against the pillow.

The next time he opened his eyes, Daryl was standing beside him, bending down to place something on the side table next to the bed.

“What’s that?” Paul mumbled.

Daryl looked at him. “S’just water and aspirin," he whispered. "Take it when you wake up, alright?”

“Okay,” Paul said as he slid his eyes shut.

Then everything was black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's going to happen when Paul wakes up? What a night. 
> 
> As always, comments are appreciated and help me write faster. Thanks for all your support.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, won't be able to proofread until the morning, so sorry for any errors!

Paul inhaled as he awoke, cloudy mind clearing into consciousness.

A dull ache immediately throbbed across his skull and his tongue felt cotton-dry. He winced as he blinked open his eyelids, the contrast of dark to morning light burning his vision. When his eyes finally adjusted to the bright room, he furrowed his brows in confusion—he’d expected to be facing the walls of his bedroom, not peering across the living area into the kitchen. Looking down, he noticed that one of the extra fleece blankets from the bed was draped over his body.

He turned his attentions to a glass of water and a packet of aspirin sitting on the side table next to him. For a moment he wondered if he’d put them there last night, but then he remembered.

Daryl had left them for him after he’d fallen onto the pull-out couch. After he had vomited in the toilet. After he’d drank too much and embarrassed himself outside the bar.

Paul groaned, rubbing one hand down his face and then back up to massage between his brows. _Fuck._

Pushing himself into a seated position, he reached over to grab the water and pills. He popped the two tablets out of the tin material and lifted them into his mouth. He took a sip to swallow them and then gulped down the entire glass.

When he placed the cup back onto the side table, Paul’s eyes flicked to something on the ground. Laying on the floor was a pillow and the other fleece blanket from the bed. He considered the possibility that he’d tossed them on the floor in his sleep, but then his hungover mind realized the obvious: Daryl had slept on the floor.

As if on cue, the bathroom door opened and the older man walked out. He was wearing the same flannel and baggy jeans as last night, but his boots were traded for mismatched socks and his hair looked matted and greasy. The biker tensed when he noticed Paul and awkwardly halted in the middle of the room.

“Hey,” Daryl said.

Paul felt his cheeks heat as their eyes met. He’d done some stupid things when he was drunk and he’d woken up in the morning in awkward situations before, but none of those encounters were nearly as mortifying as this one. He hadn’t gotten sick from alcohol since his early twenties, and even then he hadn't vomited in front of anyone or overshared stories from his past. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so vulnerable…he usually hated feeling like people could see through him. And Daryl—hell, he wanted Daryl of all people not to realize how much of a mess he really was beneath it all.

Yet, despite his embarrassment, not once had he felt judged last night. In fact, in his vulnerable state Daryl had made him feel safe. The realization made Paul’s chest swell with warmth and he swallowed, flicking his eyes away from the taller man’s.

“Hey,” Paul croaked in return, his voice hoarse from sleep and dryness.

Daryl shifted and briefly chewed on his bottom lip. “How ‘ya feel?”

The younger man cleared his throat. “Fine, I think,” he managed.

A quiet pause passed between the two before Daryl took a few steps forward. “I’ll get some more water,” he murmured before bending over the side table and grabbing the now-empty glass. Before Paul could argue, the man was already padding into the kitchen and turning on the faucet.

Paul pushed himself back further and leaned against the headboard, pillows supporting his back. Daryl returned a few moments later, and when he handed over the glass their fingers brushed. Paul’s heart began pumping faster.

“Thank you,” Paul said before taking a sip.

Daryl gave a quick nod and then bent down to the floor, gathering the pillow and blanket.

Paul pulled the glass from his lips. “You didn't have to do that.”

Turning around, the taller man gave Paul a questioning look, items in hand.

“Sleeping on the floor, you didn't have to do that.”

Daryl’s cheeks reddened noticeably and he broke their eye contact. He shrugged. “S’fine, I’ve slept on worse.”

Paul’s heart tightened as he imagined the truck in the garage, Daryl’s shitty apartment, the places the man must have lived in Georgia knowing the situation with his brother.

“I wouldn’t have cared if you took my bed or, uh, crashed here too,” Paul added, heart thumping.

Daryl straightened, his wide shoulders taut. His slitted eyes met Paul’s wide ones.

It was the truth—he wouldn’t have minded if Daryl had chosen to sleep in his bedroom or on the other side of the pull-out couch. Although he doubted the man would have chosen the second option given the…implications. Paul’s spine tingled at the thought of waking up next to Daryl in the same bed and he immediately swallowed, pushing away the thoughts.

Silence ebbed in the space between them.

“I’m sorry about last night,” Paul added after a moment, breaking the quiet. “I don’t usually get sick like that.”

The younger man swallowed after he finished, heart still racing. He watched as the older man broke their eye contact and stepped forward. Daryl leant down and placed the pillow and blanket at the foot of the bed. After a momentary pause, he sat down at the edge, side facing Paul’s direction. The man bit his thumb before glancing sideways and meeting the younger man’s eyes once more.

“Don’t be,” he said, voice gravelly but soft. “Ain’t your fault.”

Paul felt his cheeks warm again. It was his fault for taking that last shot, although he hadn’t thought he’d actually throw up because of it. He exhaled, running a hand through his long hair, and the action evoked a memory from last night—Daryl’s wide hands in his hair, warm against the nape of his neck as he pulled the strands back from his face.

The younger man swallowed and looked down into his lap.

“Thank you for helping me,” Paul said after a few moments. When he raised his eyes, Daryl was staring at him with an unfamiliar intensity. The look sent swirls of tingling warmth through Paul’s body.

“Welcome,” Daryl answered softly.

The smaller man couldn’t hold his gaze any longer and glanced back down into his lap. After several moments, Daryl spoke again.

“M’ sorry ‘bout what happened with your dad,” he murmured.

Paul snapped his head up to look at Daryl once more, heart speeding in his chest. The older man was watching him softly. For several moments Paul couldn’t think of anything to say—he just sat there, eyes locked with Daryl’s and lump growing in his throat.

He dropped his eyes from Daryl’s, focusing instead on a random spot on his shoulder. He cleared his throat. “It’s okay. A lot of people have to go through much worse.”

Daryl’s body seemed to tense at that and Paul wondered if he’d said something wrong. The man bit on his lip for a few moments before standing from the bed.

“Gonna have a smoke and go for a ride.”

Paul felt his stomach sink. He definitely said something wrong. That or Daryl wasn't interested in being around a guy who probably looked and smelled like dried vomit any longer.

“Alright,” Paul answered.

The biker walked over to his boots and slipped his feet inside. After tying them up and pulling on his coat, he glanced back at Paul. “I’ll be back,” he rasped.

“Okay, Arnold.”

Daryl raised a brow.

“Schwarzenegger…you know, Terminator? Never mind I don’t know why I said that,” Paul mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face.

_You’re really knocking it out of the park, Rovia. Good job._

“‘Kay,” Daryl said. He looked back at Paul once more before grabbing his keys and exiting the apartment.

Once he was gone, Paul slid down the bed so that his head was resting on the pillow. He groaned.

A moment later he felt something buzz in his back pocket. He jumped before realizing it was just his phone. Adjusting his position so that he could reach the device, he pulled it out and squinted into the bright screen. The first thing he noticed was the time: 10:58 am. He wondered how long Daryl had been awake.

Mind returning to the task at hand, he flicked his eyes down to the notification bubbles.

_2 messages from Sasha_

Paul unlocked his phone and opened the conversations. 

> **Sasha 2:44 AM**
> 
> Hey, did you guys head out?
> 
> **Sasha 10:58 AM**  
>  Morning. Just checking that you made it home okay. P.S. Happy Thanksgiving!

He typed a quick response and pressed send. 

> **Jesus 10:59 AM**  
>  Hey, I’m good. Sorry I didn’t text you, I was tired last night and passed out. You too!

Paul dropped his phone onto the comforter before closing his eyes and rubbing between his brows. He lay there for a few minutes in silence, mind replaying the conversation he’d just had with Daryl, before another buzz reverberated near his knee. He grabbed the phone again and checked the text. 

> **Sasha 11:03 AM**  
>  Hope you had a good night ;)

Sighing, Paul tossed his phone back onto the bed and slowly pushed himself up into a seated position. His head spun slightly at the change in balance and he felt a wave of nausea pass over him. After his body calmed down, he left the bed and walked to the bathroom. He needed to shower.

 

* * *

 

A half-hour later Paul lay in his own bed, wet hair drying over the pillows as he scrolled his fingers on the trackpad of his laptop. Somehow he'd ended up on Facebook in an endless loop of stalking. Currently he was on his high school classmate’s sister’s boyfriend’s profile looking at his German vacation pictures from 2009.

Even though his eyes glazed over the photos, his mind focused on his earlier conversation with Daryl. The biker clearly felt awkward after the mention of Paul's dad, although he was the one to bring it up in the first place. Given that Daryl had shared his own past troubles to some degree, Paul didn't think his discomfort stemmed from an opposition to personal stories, but then again getting to that point with him took a blow up and gentle coaxing. Perhaps the biker wasn't sure how to respond afterword and that's why he left so suddenly. Paul had been disappointed, but at the same time relieved they didn't have to discuss what had happened any further.

Daryl wasn't the only one who has trouble opening up to people.

Paul sighed and exited out of Facebook, his stalking clearly not taking his mind off the issue at hand. His heart raced as he thought of how gentle Daryl had been last night and this morning, as he remembered the look the man given him on the bed. Then he went and screwed it up somehow. Perhaps saying that others have been through worse hit too close to home. He already knew Daryl’s relationship with Merle wasn't perfect—and there’s most likely more the man hadn’t told him. He should have been more thoughtful with his response.

 _Shit_ , Paul sighed internally.

After a few more minutes of pointless internet meandering, Paul shut his laptop and placed it on his bedside table. While his headache had receded thanks to the meds, he still felt pretty tired. He snagged his headphones from his laptop and plugged them into his iPhone. Eyes closed, he listened to a quiet playlist of white noise before drifting to sleep.

When he woke, his mind vaguely sensed noises coming from the kitchen. He cracked open one eye and rubbed the other, pulling out his headphones with his opposite hand. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out, but somehow he felt more groggy and hungover than he did before his nap.

Paul sat up and hopped off the bed, still rubbing his eye while hazily walking to the bedroom door. He opened it to reveal Daryl in the kitchen, hoisting a series of plastic grocery bags onto the counter.

"You went shopping?" Paul asked, voice still heavy with sleep.

Daryl looked up from a particularly heavy bag in one of his hands. Even under his jacket Paul could see the tight muscles of his arm flex.

"Yeah, uh," the taller man said, raising the bag to the counter. "D'unno what you like so I got a bit of everything."

Paul's eyes scan across the bags now decorating his countertops. "How'd you even take these back with you on the bike?" he asks, padding further into the kitchen.

"I got the truck from the shop. I'll bring it back later, know it's big for the parkin' lot."

"No that's fine," Paul said. "Thank you—”

His eyes catch on something sitting on the kitchen table. It's one of those pre-packaged rotisserie chickens from the hot food stand. Inside another bag he can see the edge of a container of pre-made mashed potatoes.Then it hit him.

Daryl wasn't just buying groceries. He bought a fucking Thanksgiving dinner.

He looked up and met Daryl's gaze.

“Yea uh, they didn’t have no turkey left, so I got that,” the man said.

Paul walked forward into the kitchen and gazed into a few bags. He saw cans of cranberry sauce and corn, hot containers of mac and cheese, something that looked like yams, and green bean casserole, a six pack of beer, and paper plates with Thanksgiving-themed leaves and cornucopias printed around the edges. There were more items in the bags on the counter, but he wasn’t close enough to make out what they were.

After several seconds, Paul flicked his eyes back to Daryl. “You bought Thanksgiving dinner?”

Daryl’s face turned a deep shade of red. “Yea well ya’ didn’t have no food in the fridge and the only shit they had was the holiday stuff so—”

“Daryl,” Paul interrupted. “It’s sweet, thank you.”

The man stilled and his face seemed redder than before. He shrugged one shoulder. “Figured you’d be hungry.”

Paul felt a smile tugging at his lips. The man could have ordered take out or picked up a pizza, but instead he’d specifically chosen to buy holiday appropriate items. He doubted the only food they had left at the entire grocery store were the items now in his kitchen. As much as he was playing it off as not a big deal, Daryl clearly wanted to share something as close to a homemade Thanksgiving meal he could find with Paul. He’d play along for now, though.

“That I am. I didn’t eat all day because I didn’t have an appetite earlier.”

“We ain’t gotta eat this all, just didn’t know what kind of sides and stuff you wanted,” Daryl said.

Paul cocked his head. “Daryl, you’ve seen me eat. I like everything.”

Daryl snorted, eyes flicking away as he started unbagging a few items on the counter. _Plastic forks. Hershey's chocolate bars. Marshmallows._

“Anythin’ you don’t like?” Daryl asked.

“Hmm,” Paul pondered. He moved over to the table to begin removing the food from the bags there. “Not a fan of dill pickles.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, never liked the taste, even as a kid. I love sweet pickles though.”

Daryl snorted in amusement.

Paul smirked as he pulled a packet of napkins from the last unfinished bag. “Don’t make fun.”

“Didn’t say I was,” he responded. His lips slightly quirked at one corner.

“What? They totally taste different.”

“Maybe.”

“Well,” Paul said, crinkling the plastic bags as he gathered them together, “do _you_ like them both?”

“Yea, all pickles are damn good. Them an’ pigs feet.”

Paul raised both brows, stilling his movement. “You’re kidding.”

Daryl walked over to the garbage cabinet to toss away his handful of empty plastic bags. “Nah.”

“What do they even taste like?”

The taller man shrugged, now closer to Paul. “Kinda like vinegary pork.”

Paul cringed.

“You should try ‘em.”

“Don’t tell me I’m going to find a jar in one of these bags.”

Daryl smirked slightly, bangs falling into his eyes. “Nah. Next time I’ll get them and the dill pickles for ‘ya.”

Paul smiled and shook his head. “Don’t injure me so, Dixon. If you want to win my heart you’ll need to keep the vinegar-preserved jars of suspicious items out of the household.”

The biker rolled his eyes, but Paul thought he noticed the man’s cheeks pinken again.

 

* * *

 

Three hours later, after they’d chatted and eaten a large potluck meal from what Daryl had bought, the two moved to watch TV in the living area. At first Paul wasn’t sure what the correct protocol should be—should he ask to return the bed to couch-mode so they could sit and watch, or should he leave it and hope Daryl wasn’t weird about sitting in bed together? He had opted to sleep on the floor instead of his usual spot when Paul was there, after all. Plus, he hadn’t washed the sheets since he’d slept in them last night.

It turned out Paul didn’t need to ask, because as soon as he’d walked to the TV stand to pick up the remote, Daryl was already climbing onto the bed. He sat back against the headboard, one leg bent up and the other extended. He’d grabbed a beer beforehand and was nursing it when Paul started walking to the other side of the bed. When Daryl noticed him, he dropped his hand holding the bottle and looked up. “What you wanna watch?” he asked.

“Well,” Paul sighed as he moved onto the bed, “we can see what’s on. If not, I have Netflix and plenty of movies.”

Daryl shrugged. “Okay.”

Paul sat back against the headboard, moving his legs into a criss-crossed position. The couch-bed was a queen size at most, so there wasn’t too much free space between them and one of his knees was nearly brushing Daryl’s extended leg. He could feel the taller man’s warmth having him this close.

His chest was thumping, but he ignored it.

Paul turned on the television and started clicking through channels. Nothing of interest was coming up, and after landing on a ridiculously biased dramatization of the _first Thanksgiving_ , Paul groaned.

“What?” Daryl asked.

“This is horrendous.”

Daryl cocked his head, watching the screen as a stereotypical guy in a pilgrim suit passed a bucket of corn to a smiling Native American. “Seems corny.”

“Not just that, it’s historically incorrect and insensitive. None of that happened. The European settlers slaughtered the Native Americans—not just then, but for years afterward. The ramifications of that still exist today,” Paul ranted before flipping the channel to a game show.

When he realized how impassioned he’d sounded (which tended to happen often when he talked about his political ideologies), and that Daryl hadn’t said a word, he glanced over at the man. Daryl was watching him quietly, another strange expression on his face.

“Do you not agree?” Paul asked.

Daryl flicked his eyes away. “Nah, that’s not—I just didn’t know that,” he said quietly, voice raspy and soft.

_Oh._

“That’s probably because in the past our educational system told a distorted version of the truth.”

“Never showed up for school much when I was a kid,” Daryl said before taking a swig of beer. “Shows why I don’t know shit.”

Paul wondered why Daryl didn’t show up. Not that he didn’t have his own share of hooky days during high school, and he could certainly imagine Daryl being the type to do the same, but any younger made Paul’s senses perk with concern. He figured that wasn’t something Daryl wanted to elaborate on, so he didn’t ask.

Instead, he turned his head to face Daryl. “It’s not your fault—all of us have a lot to learn.What matters is that we always question what we’ve accepted as truth for the sake of what’s right, even if it it’s unfamiliar or makes us uncomfortable.”

Daryl’s eyes met his and they locked for several moments. Then the man broke their gaze and he lifted his beer once more, knocking back another swig. Several moments pass. Then, “You’re real smart, y’know.”

The air suddenly felt too hot and Paul’s cheeks set aflame. He hadn’t been expecting such a blatant compliment. He raised a brow with amusement, disguising his embarrassment. “Not really. I just have no life and read too much.”

_Smooth._

Daryl snorted, but didn't respond. He took another drink from his bottle.

“Sorry, I know I can talk a lot.”

“Nah, keep talkin,’” Daryl said, slitted eyes now on the man beside him.

Paul’s cheeks heated again for what felt like the thousandth time. _What’s going on with me?_

“Anything in particular you’d like me to chew your ear off about, Dixon?”

Daryl shrugged. “What do you wanna to talk about?”

“You mean besides social and political issues?” Paul smirked, “Hm. Martial arts, literature, philosophy, television, film, food, alcohol, sex. Anything your heart desires.”

The older man narrowed his eyes playfully and took a drink from his bottle. Paul watched as his lips slipped over the top of the neck. Suddenly his t-shirt felt too heavy for his chest.

“What do you like to talk about?” Paul asked.

“I like bikes.”

Paul can’t help but snort, lips peeling into a smile. “Wow.”

Daryl’s tiny smile widened into a proper smirk. He shook his head. “Sorry, just came out.”

“Okay, bikes, I can do that. Why do you like them so much?”

Daryl’s eyes met Paul’s. He shrugged. “Like the feeling. Driving free, the air against you and all that.”

Paul’s lips pulled into a soft smile. He imagined Daryl on his motorcycle without his helmet, hair billowing in the wind, open road taking him on some adventure.

“How long have you been riding?”

“Since I was fourteen, probably.”

“Really? How’d you get into it so young?” _Was that legal?_ Paul adds in his mind.

Daryl sighed, shifting his body against the sheets. “Merle started workin’ at shops when he was around and I’d just hang there sometimes, learn the parts and how to fix stuff. I started driving them then.”

“Did Merle ride bikes too?” Paul asked.

“He knew how, yeah, but he liked his trucks better. The one I got here was his.”

Paul’s heart clenched as he thought about Daryl keeping the truck for Merle.

“How much older is Merle than you?” _Was,_ Paul’s mind corrected.

“Ten years,” Daryl answered before taking another drink.

Paul nodded.

“Can I ask how old you are?”

Daryl turned his head to Paul. His bangs hung over guarded eyes.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Paul added, “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

The man flicked his eyes away and Paul noticed him twitch with the fingers of his left hand. “Fourty-six,” he answered.

Paul’s eyes quickly scanned Daryl’s body. He looked good for nearing fifty. Really fucking good.

“I’m thirty-two, just so we’re fair.”

Daryl inhaled at that, dipping his head back to finish off the rest of his beer. He shook his head.

“What?” Paul asks.

“Feel old.”

“Why? You’re only…fourteen years older than me. That’s not a lot.”

Daryl sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ,” he groaned.

“Yes?”

The older man snorted behind his hand. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Daryl dropped the his hand on his face. He glanced at Paul before pushing himself up to the side of the bed. “Need another beer,” he grumbled.

Paul smiled, heart beating a bit quicker than before.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, the pair opted to begin watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy on DVD given that Daryl had finished the Hobbit recently. His roommate seemed pretty entranced by the movie as they began watching it, but Paul was distracted by something else—Daryl.

In the dimly-lit room Daryl’s features seemed softer than usual, and this close he could feel his warmth and smell the scent of cigarettes and sweat on his skin. Paul couldn’t help but occasionally flick his eyes over at the man next to him. The side of his face with the beauty mark was facing him, and Paul’s mind fixated on how sweet it looks above his lips. His mouth seemed so soft, especially his upper lip. He wondered what it’d feel like beneath his finger tips.

Or his own lips.

Suddenly Paul could give two fucks about Frodo and the Ring.

In the middle of the scene where Boromir tells the group they cannot simply walk into Mordor, Daryl shifted and looked at Paul. Their eyes met and Paul’s heart felt as if it would escape his chest.

“You hungry?” Daryl asked.

Paul blinked and fumbled to find the remote. He paused the movie. “What?”

“I uh, bought stuff for s’mores if you want some. I’ll make ‘em in the microwave.”

Despite the man’s years on Paul, it’s moments like these where he seemed much younger, almost innocent and boyish. It made Paul’s chest warm and tight and his insides feel soft, which wasn’t something he was accustomed to experiencing.

“Yeah, sure,” Paul smiled. “Thanks.”

Daryl sat up from the bed and walked over into the kitchen. Paul watched him get the ingredients out from the cabinet, one arm pulling up his baggy jeans as they hung low on his hips. The back of his dark hair hung in messy strands at his neck and it stuck out in weird directions near the top, but it looked endearing nonetheless. Paul’s mind imagined what it would be like to wrap his arms around his waist, the way it’d feel to place a kiss at the nape of his neck.

The man returned a few minutes later with two plates. Paul sat by his side for the duration of the film, eating his dessert and occasionally glancing over at him. Once the film finished, Paul turned off the TV. They sat in relative darkness, Daryl sliding down to a more comfortable position on the bed and bending one arm behind his head as a pillow.

“So did you like it?” Paul asked.

“Yea, was really good.”

“My personal favorite is The Two Towers. We’ll have to watch that one next.”

Daryl hummed in agreement and Paul glanced over to the man. He seemed exhausted. He’d been up all night helping Paul and had to sleep on the floor too. He should probably move into his own bedroom and let the man get some real rest.

He shifted from his position and slid off the bed, standing. Daryl looked up, eyelids heavy.

“You goin’?” he asked.

“Yeah, time for sleep I think.”

“‘Kay.”

Paul breathed in. “Daryl?”

“Mhm?”

“Thank you again for last night. And for today. Meant a lot to me.”

It’s dark, but Paul could tell Daryl’s cheeks blushed.

“You’re welcome,” he rasped.

Paul walked around the bed to the side where Daryl was lying down. “Goodnight Daryl.”

“‘Night, Paul.”

The younger man walked back into his bedroom and close the door behind him.

He had a lot to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments mean a lot and help me write faster. Thank you for reading, as always!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any errors, will correct in the morning.

“Hey, you busy?”

Tapping the call into speaker mode, Paul pulled the car door shut behind him. He placed his phone into one of the cupholders in the center console and then slotted his keys into the ignition.

“Just leaving work,” he answered, twisting the keys and revving the engine to life. “What’s up?”

He heard shuffling on the other end of the line. A cheerful melody that sounded suspiciously like _[All I Want For Christmas Is You](archiveofourown.com)_ played in the distance.

“Is that Christmas music?” Paul added with a raised brow.

“We’re over a week into December now, Jesus. It’s acceptable,” Tara responded. After, she huffed out a breath and groaned.

Paul furrowed his brows at the curious noises humming through his phone’s speaker. “What are you doing? Exercising?”

He knew his friend was supposed to be preparing for the physical aspect of her police academy exam, but holiday music was an odd choice to accompany a workout—even for Tara.

The brunette snorted. “Hell no.”

“Well you sound like you’re exerting yourself.”

“I’m attempting to put up lights around the ceiling molding. I can’t— _ugh_ —reach this corner, _ah_ —got it, never mind.”

Paul rolled his eyes as he drove out of The Hilltop’s parking lot. “Did you call me to tell me this?”

“Rude much,” Tara said, voice much closer and louder than before. Paul figured she must have taken him off speaker phone.

“Anyway,” his friend continued, “I called to catch up. I know I’ve been MIA since Thanksgiving.”

For several days following the holiday, Tara had been with Rosita in Texas. She’d texted him a few times since then, but their conversations hadn’t lasted too long. Paul had been…mentally occupied over the past two weeks.

“Yeah, you never really told me how it was,” Paul said, switching on his blinker as he turned onto a new road.

“It was interesting. The Espinosa’s are hilarious.”

“Oh?”

“It was a good time. A lot of food,” Tara said. “Oh—then we went Black Friday shopping. God, you should have been there. Rosita’s sister nearly kicked the shit out of this guy at a Best Buy over some video game.”

“How old is her sister again?”

“Thirteen.”

Paul snorted out a light laugh.

“So what did you end up doing?” Tara added after a moment, voice subtly shifting in tone.

Paul knew what she was trying to do. _I’m not that dense._

“Nothing much. Just stayed home,” he answered, trying his best to seem casual.

Hi friend hummed lightly from the other end of the line. “Sounds relaxing,” she said. “Was Daryl there?”

Paul inhaled as he rolled his eyes—she wasn’t giving up anytime soon. “Yeah, we hung out a bit.”

“What’d you do?”

“Ate food, watched TV,” Paul said as he put weight on the break, slowing down the car to stop at a red light. He leaned forward to turn the dial up on the heat—it was freezing and even his leather coat and gloves weren’t enough to keep him warm. With each breath he could see a ghost of air waft from his lips before him. He gripped both leather-clad hands over the wheel, hoping the added pressure would help warm him to some degree.

Tara hummed again. “Sash told me you two went out with them the night before.”

“Yeah, we went to a few bars.”

“She also said you guys left together,” Tara added. Paul could hear the smirk in her voice.

“Yes, because we currently live in the same apartment.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, but is there something you’d like to share…?”

Exhaling through his nose, Paul lifted one hand from the wheel and rubbed his brow. “Nothing happened. Unless you consider me getting sick newsworthy.”

“Oh shit,” Tara said, playful tone replaced with worry. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I had a shot that put me over the edge, nothing serious. Daryl,” Paul cleared his throat, “Daryl helped me get home. That’s all.”

Tara paused on the other end of the line. “He helped you, huh? That’s sweet.”

Paul could hear the amusement laced in her voice. He probably shouldn’t have added that last part, but at least he didn’t mention Daryl sitting with him in the bathroom the whole time, holding his hair back against his neck, whispering calm words.

“Anyway,” Tara continued, apparently giving up on her quest for information, “How have you been otherwise?”

“Busy. Work’s been hell.”

 _That’s a lie._ Work had been fine with Gregory barely around, but he wanted to distract Tara from her previous line of inquiry.

The traffic light turned green and Paul pressed on the pedal with his foot, driving the car from its stationary position.

“Oh, that sucks,” came Tara’s voice. “Did something happen?”

“No, just the usual bullshit.”

Tara paused for several moments. Then, “Hey, you okay?”

Paul swallowed. Discussing his feelings right now would open a can of worms he wasn’t ready to face quite yet. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired from today,” he lied.

“Okay,” Tara said. “Well I’ll talk to you tomorrow then?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

“Alright, bye loser.”

Paul snorted. “Bye Tara.”

After a moment, he reached his right hand over and tapped the end call button on his phone. Returning his eyes to the road, he exhaled a breath.

He knew Tara meant well, but sometimes her constant poking could be exhausting. If he was open with her he knew he wouldn’t get into these situations, but how could he discuss something that he wasn’t even comfortable thinking about himself?

Paul bit his lip as he made a right down the next street. Since Thanksgiving, his mind had been at war with itself—all because of Daryl Dixon.

From the very beginning, Paul had found Daryl attractive—that much he couldn’t deny. He’d tried to flirt with him when they'd met by offering a free drink, but that had obviously backfired.

Given the tension that ensued following their first meeting, his attraction to the mechanic wasn’t the focus of his mind's interest. Yet, as their friendship grew from rocky footing, those feelings remerged. Except this time they weren't just about how Daryl’s vest fit over his wide shoulders, or the way his narrow stares sent shivers down his spine. This time Paul’s chest felt warm whenever the man would display the smallest smile, whenever his wet hair dried in floppy, soft waves against his neck, whenever his gravelly voice would get soft as he shared stories or asked questions. Paul had always known he liked Daryl as a person—he’d voiced as much to the man himself—but he hadn’t realized how much he’d come to care for him until Thanksgiving.

Over the past two weeks, his mind had been fixated on this realization. It didn’t help that Daryl was currently living with him; he couldn't escape his thoughts when the object of his affection was the person he saw most every day.

Despite the warmth that blossomed in his chest whenever Daryl was around, Paul felt a sense of dread over the fact that his feelings for Daryl weren’t platonic. What would the man think about that if he ever found out? Would he leave the apartment, move out on his own after three months of living with him? Having your friend and roommate act outside the boundaries of friendship would make anyone uneasy regardless of their sexuality or gender.

Unless...unless Daryl felt the same way.

Sometimes Paul found himself getting his hopes up based on fleeting looks and body language, but most of the time he tried to stay realistic. Regardless of whether or not Daryl was interested, they’d become closer as friends over the time he’d began living with him. He didn’t want to lose that.

Paul exhaled through his nose once more. The silence in the car was too unnerving, so he pushed on the radio, allowing a staticky melody to crackle through the dark, cold air.

He couldn't remember the last time he’d felt this way about someone. He’d had crushes before, of course, but this seemed new. In fact, what he was feeling was completely different from the last guy he’d been with—he’d met Alex on Grindr for fuck’s sake. The expectation had begun with sex, and that was the focus of their relationship even until the end. He’d been attracted to Alex and cared about him as a person, but he was never able to return what the man wanted the most.

Paul’s mind flashed to fragmented pieces of glass on the floor, to Tara’s wide, shocked eyes as she looked on, to Alex’s shaky words that had cut deeper than he ever wanted to admit.

_No one will ever love you because you’ll never let them._

It’d been months since he had even thought about that night. He shook his head, forcing the memories from his brain.

 

* * *

 

The following morning Paul woke early.

It was the first Saturday he had completely off from work in a few weeks. While he would have liked to sleep in, he knew he’d been neglecting the gym the past several days.

After crawling out from beneath his warm covers, Paul hopped off his bed and headed toward his closet. He changed into track pants, sneakers, a tank top, and a fleece-insulated hoodie. Once comfortable, he tied his hair up into a bun on the top of his head and exited his bedroom.

Daryl was still asleep under the couch-bed comforter, face nestled into the pillow and sheets haphazardly wrapped around his torso. Paul made sure his steps were quiet, but as he picked up his keys from the counter top, Daryl stirred. The older man huffed out a breath before rubbing both hands over his eyes and shifting upwards, back resting against the couch cushions.

“W’time s’it,” Daryl mumbled, voice raspy. The older man eyes were puffy with sleep and the tips of his ears poked from beneath matted waves.

Paul felt a soft, warm heat tingle through his body at how adorable Daryl looked, but he ignored it. He had to ignore it.

“Just before eight,” he answered.

Daryl snorted and rubbed the corner of one eye with his finger. When he lowered his hand he blinked, finally taking in the sight of the man before him.

“I’m going to the gym,” Paul said. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

The biker straightened his shoulders slightly and gave a quick nod. “‘Kay.”

“See you later,” Paul said before walking to the front door.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Daryl slide back down onto the pillow and rub both hands over his face.

 

* * *

 

 

Rivulets of sweat dripped down Paul’s back as he stepped out of his jiu-jitsu training room. He lifted the front of his tank top and wiped it over his oily face as he found the closest water fountain. He filled his empty bottle up with water and then brought the container to his lips, gulping down the cool liquid.

After a few seconds, he felt his phone vibrate in the pocket of his track pants. He pulled it out with one hand as he continued to drink his water. With a swipe of his thumb he opened the message:

> **Tara 10:24 AM**  
>  You busy later?

Paul furrowed his brows. He lowered his bottle and balanced it between his elbow and side so he could type with both hands.

> **Jesus 10:25 AM**  
>  Why am I afraid to answer that
> 
> **Tara 10:26 AM**  
>  Oh hush. A few of us are going to that tree lighting ceremony in town tonight. Want to join?

Paul considered the offer. He’d never been interested in the event in the past—mostly because he was always working, but also because the whole occasion seemed to be targeted at families, not single and lonely thirty-somethings. Yet, he hadn’t seen the group in a few weeks so it would be nice of him to show up.

> **Tara 10:26 AM**  
>  Tell Daryl he’s invited too :)

Sighing, Paul ran a hand over his still-sweaty face. Then he typed his response.

> **Jesus 10:27 AM**  
>  What time
> 
> **Tara 10:27 AM**  
>  :) Starts 8PM

Paul locked his phone and pushed it back down into his pocket. He felt stupidly nervous for having to ask Daryl if he wanted to come. The celebration definitely didn’t seem to be something the surly biker would be a fan of attending.

 _But maybe he’ll want to because you’ll be there,_ his mind added.

He sighed again and retrieved his keys from his other pockets. He needed to stop being so naive.

 

* * *

 

When Paul arrived home, Daryl was at the kitchen table shoveling a spoon of Lucky Charms into his mouth.

“I’m starving,” Paul sighed as he shrugged his hoodie from off his bare shoulders and placed it over one of the kitchen chairs. Although it was freezing outside, he was still overheated from his long work-out. His apartment didn’t have the greatest heating either, but he felt far more comfortable in his tank-top right now than he did in the stuffy fleece jacket.

Daryl’s eyes met Paul’s own as he crunched his mouthful. “Wan’ some?” he mumbled, gesturing to the open box sitting beside him.

Paul smirked as he moved toward the refrigerator. “Tempting,” he said over his shoulder, “but no thank you. I need real food.”

The older man swallowed. “Got somethin’ against Lucky Charms?”

Paul chuckled as he pulled some butter, cheese, and a pack of eggs from the fridge. “No, an omelette just sounds much more appetizing.”

Daryl snorted and continued to spoon the soggy cereal into his mouth. While he didn’t doubt the man actually found the cereal to be genuinely appetizing knowing his taste in food, Paul thought he might enjoy something home-cooked instead. Paul didn’t cook much himself—he tended to order in or pick up take-out on his way home from work—and he couldn’t remember a time when he’d cooked anything for Daryl since he’d started living with him three months ago. He placed the items on the counter and turned around, hips leaning against the cabinet.

The older man lowered the spoon and eyed him curiously.

“Would you like one?” Paul asked, brow raised.

Daryl shrugged. “You ain’t gotta.”

_That’s a yes._

Smirking, Paul pushed himself up from counter and stepped back toward the fridge. He opened the door and bent slightly, peering inside. “We have a few other things I could add—broccoli, tomatoes, uh, no bacon but there’s ham.”

“Just cheese s’okay,” Daryl said.

“Alright, one cheese omelette coming up,” Paul said. He grabbed a knife from the drawer, then pulled a clean pan from one of the lower cabinets and placed it on the stove. He turned on one of the burners.

“Don’t fill up on Lucky Charms, Dixon,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

The older man narrowed his eyes playfully and took a dramatic bite from his spoon.

Paul shook his head and stifled a laugh as he knifed a smudge of butter onto the simmering pan. He heard the kitchen chair push out against the floor behind him. Daryl walked over beside him and placed his finished bowl in the sink.

“Need help?” he asked.

The shorter man glanced up to look at Daryl. His ears were still peeking out from his dark waves and the cotton sleep shirt Paul had loaned him (well, given him, really) was tight over his chest and shoulders. They hadn’t stood this close in a while, and with him only wearing a thin tank-top Paul could feel the larger man’s heat warm his bare arms.

Paul raised a brow. “It’s pretty simple. What, think I can’t handle it, Dixon?”

Daryl shrugged and leaned an arm against the counter top, slightly turning so his wide shoulders were facing him. “Wouldn’t want ya to burn yourself.”

The smaller man felt a smirk grow on his lips. “Worried about me tarnishing my dashingly good looks?” he countered.

Daryl’s cheeks reddened noticeably and he narrowed his eyes.

Paul smiled, returning his attentions back to the sizzling pan. He placed the knife down and then cracked an egg over the edge, pouring the insides into the pan.

He looked back over at Daryl as he placed the shell on the counter. “You want to help? You can crack the other egg.”

Daryl straightened from his position and looked over at the carton of eggs. At this angle, it would make sense for the man to walk around him to reach the item, but instead the biker reached one muscled arm over the pan, tantalizingly close to Paul’s bare shoulder as he leaned forward, and grabbed one out of the pack.

His eyes met Paul’s stare briefly before he took the egg with one hand and cracked it over the pan. The eggshell splintered but it wasn’t enough to break the entire thing, so he repeated the action. This time the yolk and white spilled over the side of the pan, a few pieces of its shell along with it.

“Shit,” Daryl cursed, cheeks reddening. He attempted to reach inside and pull the pieces out, but his fingers were too large and he completely missed the fragment, instead only wetting his digits with egg white.

Paul pursed his lips, trying not to smile. Even though the man failed at cracking an egg correctly, he’d looked so cute doing so. Instead of saying one of the many comebacks he could think of after Daryl teased him, he placed one hand on Daryl’s forearm. “I got it,” Paul said softly.

Daryl looked at Paul, then down at where the smaller man had placed his hand, and finally pulled back his arm. The shorter man moved his hand into the pan and managed to pry out the two pieces of hard shell. He dropped both into the sink and shook some of the goop from his hands.

After wiping off his hand with a towel, he offered the item to Daryl to clean off his own fingers. The man accepted it, eyes not quite meeting Paul’s own.

“Good thing we’re making yours first,” Paul joked, hoping to lighten the mood.

 

* * *

 

Later, they sat at the kitchen table eating their respective omelettes. Even though Daryl had already consumed a bowl of cereal, he scarfed down the eggs like he hadn't eaten anything in weeks.

“S’good, thanks,” the older man rasped as he finished his last bite.

Paul smiled. “No problem. At least no one choked on any shells.”

Daryl narrowed his eyes again, cheeks pinking slightly.

“Kidding,” Paul smirked.

A few moments later, Paul placed down his fork and cleared his throat. “So uh, later there’s this tree-lighting ceremony happening in the city square.”

Daryl looked up, slowly finishing his last chew.

_Why am I nervous? It’s just a stupid event. If he doesn’t want to go who cares. You barely want to go yourself._

“What’s that?”

Paul sighed. “Essentially there’s this big Christmas tree they put up in the square near all the shops. Every year a few weeks before the holiday they have this big event—hot cider, music, street vendors, all that—and then they turn on the tree lights.”

Daryl looked at him, but said nothing.

“Tara invited us if you want to go,” Paul ended.

The older man swallowed his cheekful of food and then placed down his fork. “You wanna go?”

Paul shrugged, trying to seem casual. “Yeah, I mean, if you want.”

“Okay.”

Breathing in through his nose, Paul nodded. “Okay, cool.”

 

* * *

 

The city square was filled with attendees of the ceremony—friends in line for hot cider and cocoa, teenagers laughing and taking selfies, parents and kids meandering in and out of shops with bags of trinkets and treats. Paul’s eyes focused on a couple standing in the crowd next to the [string quartet that was playing Christmas carols](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gfecyjiNx5g). The brunette woman’s mittens were wrapped around her plastic cup of cocoa, arms pulled in close and using the steam to warm herself. Her boyfriend wrapped an arm around her shoulders and rubbed his hand over her arm.

He felt a chill run up his neck and he pulled his beanie down over his head, hoping it would help warm him. The cold front hitting the U.S. hadn’t spared Virginia, and it was colder than he'd ever remembered it being since he’d lived there.

“Yo, cocoa or cider?”

Paul blinked, turning his attention to the voice beside him. Tara was standing there, earmuffs on her head and a large scarf wrapped around her neck. In her gloved hands were two paper cups, liquid visibly steaming from the top.

“Jesus, I’m freezing my ass off so either choose one or I’m taking both,” she said, brows raised.

“Uh, cocoa,” he responded.

His friend handed him the cup in her left hand. “Bottoms up,” she said before taking a sip of the cider. She cringed, pursing her lips.

“Don’t do that, it’s really hot,” she said, face scrunched.

Paul snorted a light laugh. His attentions were then transferred to the rest of his friends, who walking over to where he and Tara stood. Eugene was carrying a bag of what seemed like chocolate-covered pretzels, Rosita was sipping on cider, and Daryl was carrying two paper cups of his own.

The biker walked over to Paul and was about to hand him a cup when he noticed the drink already housed the smaller man’s gloved hands.

“Oh, uh. Thought you didn’t have one.”

Paul looked up at the man. His leather jacket was zipped up all the way, but he was wearing no other winter garments to keep him warm—he hadn't needed any in Georgia and he’d refused Paul’s offers of beanies and scarves. His dark hair covered his ears, but his nose was pink with cold. He seemed unsure of what to do with the extra cup, clearly feeling awkward (and perhaps a bit disappointed, if Paul’s senses were correct).

The younger man wanted to toss the cup Tara had given him on the ground and take the one Daryl had gotten for him instead, but he figured that would be completely bizarre behavior. Even Eugene would question what the hell he was doing.

“Yeah, Tara—”

Suddenly he felt a hand on his own, prying the cups from his fingers.

“I changed my mind I totally hate cider,” Tara said, forcibly passing her cup to Eugene who accepted it with a confused expression. “I want my cocoa now, thanks for holding it.”

Paul relinquished his cup and met her eyes. She raised her brows and gave him a look.

_Fucking Tara._

“No problem,” Paul said to her, playing along. She gave a knowing smile and then turned to talk with Rosita and Eugene.

Paul shifted and looked at Daryl.

“You want this or nah?” the older man asked, nodding down at one of the cups.

“Yeah, yeah thank you.” Paul reached out and took one of the cocoas. His hand brushed Daryl’s bare fingers, and even through the material of his gloves he felt a chill travel down his spine.

The group chatted for about a half hour before the speakers began making their way on stage. The musicians stopped their melodies to allow several members of office to give their speeches. Finally, the Mayor arrived on stage, an older man with a white beard. Paul heard a little kid say “Dad, is that Santa?” in front of him and he snorted, glancing at Daryl beside him. The taller man must have heard as well because he had a smirk on his lips.

After the Mayor’s remarks, the woman who’d introduced the speakers earlier returned to the stage. [Music started filtering from the speakers.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yXQViqx6GMY)

“Okay everyone, we’re ready to light the tree! On the count of ten.”

The crowd counted along with the woman, even Tara next to him who yelled the numbers out even louder than some of the children.

Paul shook his head and rolled his eyes at her. She knocked his shoulder with her own.

On _one_ , the giant tree lit up, twinkling lights of color bursting to life across the green limbs. People cheered and kids ran forward to get a closer look.

Tara gathered Eugene and Rosita around her, turning them so that their backs were facing the tree. She laughed as she took selfies with the tree in the background. Rosita made stupid faces while Eugene looked stern, brows furrowed.

Paul glanced at Daryl, who was biting his lip and looking down at his boots. A wave of sadness hit the younger at the sight—the man seemed so…alone.

The celebrating families and groups of friends highlighted how out of place he seemed in general. Messy hair, worn leather motorcycle jacket, dirty boots. He watched as the man fished his shitty cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open. He pushed a few buttons and extended his hand. The camera was open and he pressed the central button to capture a few pictures of the tree.

Paul's  heart swelled in his chest.

  
He stepped over to where the man stood, close enough so that their arms were nearly touching. Daryl, dropped his hand with the phone, clearly startled. 

“My phone takes better pictures, I’ll send you mine,” Paul said. He lifted his iPhone and snapped a few from different angles.

Daryl didn’t say anything at first. Then, “Thanks.”

Paul looked at him, and their eyes locked.

He felt like a complete teenager for the thought that came to him next, but he guessed it wasn’t so embarrassing if Tara and the others were doing it.

“Do you want to take a picture with me?”

Daryl looked confused for a brief moment, then his face went red.

“Come on, I don’t want to take a selfie by myself,” Paul said as he turned around and lifted his phone, getting the luminous tree in the background.

He glanced over at Daryl and raised a brow. The man stared at him with his narrow eyes. For a moment Paul though the man would just leave him there looking like an idiot, but then he stepped forward, moving into the frame with Paul.

They were so close he could smell the cigarettes from his jacket, motorcycle grease, and the soft scent that so distinctly _Daryl._

Paul adjusted his hand to get Daryl’s head in the shot as well as some of the tree, but their height difference made it a bit difficult. Finally, when he had the perfect angle he smiled. Daryl swallowed before pursing his lips and slightly lifting the corner of his mouth, a tiny smile gracing his lips.

After he captured the shot, he dropped his hand. He felt eyes on him and glanced over to the group—Tara was watching them with the smuggest smile on her lips. She winked and then turned around, throwing an arm around Rosita and placing a big kiss on her cheek. She whispered something in her ear and then turned back around, waving down Paul.

Paul lifted his head, brows raised.

“We’re heading out, see you guys later!” she called.

“Wait, we are?” Paul head Eugene question.

Rosita elbowed Eugene in the side and flashed a smile toward him and Daryl. She pulled the confused man along with them as they followed the exiting crowds from the square.

 _Fucking Tara,_ he sighed internally.

Paul looked up at Daryl, who was chewing on his dry bottom lip.

“Do you want to get a drink or something?” Paul asked.

Daryl blinked, clearly not expecting the question. If he was being honest, Paul hadn’t been planning on asking it.

“Sure.”

 

* * *

 

They ended up at Black Clover, a pub east of the square but within walking distance to where they’d parked Paul’s car. He was glad they decided to stay close because he really did not want to end up anywhere near The Hilltop and bump into Kal or Gregory.

It was still relatively early at ten o’clock and not many people were there, so the pair were able to find a secluded booth in the back corner without much trouble. A waitress came over and took their order—two whiskeys.

“So how did you like the ceremony?” Paul asked once they received their drinks.

Daryl shrugged. “Was nice. Never saw anything like it before.”

Paul furrowed his brows. “Really?”

“Mhm,” he hummed, bringing the glass of amber liquid to his lips.

“When I was little my parents brought me to see the tree in Times Square. I remember being so amazed by it. I always thought the tree in our house was so lame afterward,” Paul said.

Daryl swallowed his drink and placed the cup on the table, slowly swirling in his hand. “My mom didn’t want one in the trailer. Although Pam next door always put this fake one outside and decorated it, wired the thing up with extension cords. Asshole kids would always come and knock it over and shit. Was probably Merle actually,” Daryl mused.

Paul’s mind latched onto the fact that Daryl likely grew up in a trailer park. He wanted to reach out and put his hand over the other man’s, but he knew he shouldn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he lifted his drink and took a sip, letting sharp burn dull his running mind.

“Was it just you, Merle, and your mom?” Paul asked.

Daryl’s eyes flicked down to his glass immediately and his hands twitched on the table. “Nah.”

The older man grabbed the drink and took a particularly long gulp.  _Maybe that was the wrong question to ask._   _Shit._

Before he could say anything to apologize, Daryl continued.

“Merle wasn’t there that much later on, especially when he went to juvie. My dad was…around. Mom was for a while until she died.”

The air halted in Paul’s lungs and his stomach sunk. “I’m sorry Daryl,” he murmured.

“Don’t be, was her own damn fault. Smokin’ and drinkin' in bed, set herself and the whole damn trailer on fire,” Daryl said, voice tense.

Paul sat silently, unsure what to say or do.

Daryl knocked back another gulp. One hand twitched beside the glass once he dropped it to the table. “Sorry, just need a cigarette,” he said.

“Okay,” Paul answered softly, eyes following Daryl as he scooted out of the booth and fished his packet of Marlboro’s from his back pocket. He left and walked out the front door.

Paul knew he should give Daryl his space, but after several moments his heart won over his mind. He pulled his wallet out of coat pocket and left thirty bucks on the table. After, he walked outside and found Daryl leaning against the front brick wall, smoke billowing from his lips. 

“Left our waitress a pretty hefty tip,” he smirked, hoping to alleviate some of the tension.

“Didn’t have to pay,” Daryl said, straightening and pushing away from against the wall.

“I wanted to.”

Daryl shakily returned his cigarette to his mouth, taking a long drag.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable in there,” Paul said. “I didn't mean to bring anything up. I didn’t know.”

The taller man shook his head, then exhaled. “Ain’t your fault.”

Neither spoke for several moments, only silent smoke between them as it drifted in the frigid wind. 

“You can talk to me,” Paul said then, voice soft. “I want to listen.”

Daryl took another drag of his cigarette, eyes never quite meeting Paul’s. After another few moments of silence, he sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Everything. I don’t know,” Paul said, huffing a humorless laugh.

The biker lifted his head and met the smaller man’s eyes. Paul wanted to reach out and run his hand through his silky hair, caress his scruffy chin, kiss the red from his cold nose.

But he couldn’t…not when he didn’t know how Daryl felt. He wouldn’t ruin what they have.

Daryl swallowed. “M’family was fucked up. Don’t think you want to hear about it.”

Paul stepped closer. “I do, if you want me to.”

The older man took one last drag before tossing the cigarette on the ground and snuffing it out with his boot. He gave a shaky exhale.

“I didn't go to tree ceremonies and get presents or whatever shit these kids do,” Daryl said, emotion lacing his voice. “Didn’t do fuckin’ nothing with my entire life. I’m fucking forty-six and still the shit my dad did to me fucks me up every day.” He stopped, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck.”

“Daryl,” Paul breathed, frozen in place.

The older man inhaled deeply, then dropped his hand. He began to pace, emotion building in his tense form.

“You really want to know my life? My dad beat the shit out of me for years. My mom was either too drunk to notice or didn’t give a fuck. Merle, my dad hit him too. Merle he, shit he was a racist bigot, a meth-head. Yet somehow he was the only one who ever took care of me. Made me who I was. And I was a piece of shit for a long time,” Daryl said, lip trembling as he stared at Paul. “I ain’t someone you would’ve ever wanted to know.”

Paul wasn’t in control of his body when he immediately stepped forward and closed the space between them, threading his arms beneath the man’s own and wrapping them around his torso. He rested his forehead against the man’s collarbone.

Daryl was stiff under his hold, clearly shocked by the sudden contact. Slowly, Paul felt Daryl’s arms fold around his own back, warm and strong through his leather coat.

The older man’s breathing was unsteady and his heart was beating rapidly in his chest, so Paul tightened his hold. He turned his head slightly, face only an inch or two from Daryl’s neck.

“I want to know you,” he whispered. “I promise. Okay?”

Daryl nodded silently. Then a soft, barely above a whisper, “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have another chapter almost finished that I want to get up before Christmas for you guys. Comments help me write faster. :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Hope you enjoy.

Paul wheeled his shopping cart across the asphalt of the supermarket parking lot, gloved hands tight around the handle bar as he pushed over each gravelly bump. When he approached his sedan, he veered to the side and slowed to a stop before the trunk.

The evening wind was harsh and cold against his exposed skin, so he quickly unloaded the plastic bags into the back of the car. After, he pulled the trunk shut and then returned the empty cart to its designated rack a few cars down. His ears were burning with cold even through his hair and beanie, so he jogged back to the car and pulled open the front door with haste, slipping inside and snapping it shut behind him.

Shivering, Paul pushed his keys into the ignition and turned his hand, revving the engine to life. Immediately afterward he turned the heat dial up to its highest level and peeled off his gloves. He rubbed his bare hands together and cupped them to his mouth, breathing hot air over his frigid fingers. The cold wave that had been plaguing northern Virginia over the past few days hadn’t let up—in fact, it was getting worse—and while he’d had plenty of experience with similar weather in Syracuse, it’d been a while since he’d had to deal with it.

Paul warmed up for a few more minutes before shifting the car into reverse and exiting his parking spot. He couldn’t wait to get back to the apartment, shove everything perishable into the fridge, and then take a hot shower.

_Maybe I’ll actually make dinner. Something Daryl would like._

His mind flashed vivid memories from a few nights back: the soft pressure of resting his head against the biker’s collarbone, the strong warmth of the taller man’s arms through his clothed back. He felt his cheeks blaze with heat and his heart begin to race in his chest.

The hug had been playing on a loop throughout his brain ever since they’d parted three nights ago. Paul still couldn’t believe he’d actually gone through with it; in that moment his heart had taken full reign of his mind and body. He knew Daryl had a troubled past based on what he’d shared about Merle, but finding out about his mother and father in such a short time period had affected him deeply. He didn’t care about revealing his feelings or risking their friendship in that moment—he'd wanted to be close to Daryl and he'd needed to show him that he wanted to be there with him, no matter what had happened in his past.

The memory of Daryl’s face once they parted was ingrained in his thoughts as well. The man’s expression had been a mix of emotion and shock over Paul’s action and words. But there was something else there, too: a tenderness behind his eyes that the younger man had never witnessed before coming from the man. In that moment, Paul felt like he was seeing Daryl with his guard completely down for the first time. Not the surly mechanic, not the mysterious biker, not the hesitant new friend. Just Daryl.

They hadn’t had much time to interact since that night—Paul had to work double shifts both Sunday and Monday—but the moments they did share were laced with residual tension. Paul assumed the man was still feeling a bit embarrassed about the whole situation. While he wanted to give him his space, he also wanted to discuss what Daryl had brought up that night. What he’d shared about his father…it made Paul want to find the son of a bitch and kick him straight in the jaw. Maybe even strangle him in his sleep. He deserved to be in jail or dead, no questions asked.

At the same time, his anger was tempered by emotions far more intense: even deeper tenderness and affection for Daryl. He already cared so much for the older man, and now that he knew there was so much more darkness he’d suffered through he couldn’t help but be both heartbroken and amazed by his bravery. To add, Paul had never met anyone who’d been physically abused before in his life and he wasn’t exactly sure how he should act. He didn’t want to be too overbearing and pressure Daryl into opening up further, but he also didn’t want to seem insensitive if the man needed extra attention. Paul just wished he could do something—anything—to make Daryl’s pain go away.

That’s what he’d been trying to convey with his hug. That he was there. That he wanted to be there. And based on the look in Daryl’s eyes after they’d parted, Paul believed man understood that.

As he drove through the parking lot, his attentions were captured by a glowing sign across the road. He hadn’t noticed it when he’d arrived, but now it was unmistakably clear:

_CHRISTMAS TREES._

He’d never been one to decorate for the holidays, even with Tara’s constant nagging about his “boring” and “un-festive” apartment. He didn’t even own a set of Christmas lights. He hadn’t been planning on doing anything different this year, yet as he stared at the illuminated sign he considered making a left into the lot filled with trees instead of the right-hand turn he needed to get home.

Daryl had mentioned he’d never had a tree in his home. He’d said his mother didn’t want them in the trailer. His mother…the one who’d died after falling asleep with a cigarette in bed. The woman who ignored or didn't even notice her own son’s abuse.

He turned left.

 

* * *

 

Paul nudged open the door of his apartment with his elbow, pushing himself inside as he hauled up several bags of groceries on both arms.

He heard a clanking near the sink and looked up—Daryl was in the kitchen, cooking. The man turned around, startled, and locked his eyes with Paul’s.

“Hey,” Paul managed before dropping one arm and releasing a few bags to the floor.

“I’ll help ya,” Daryl said suddenly, pacing over to where Paul stood.

The shorter man shook his head as he gently released the remainder of the bags to the floor. “I’ve got it.”

When he straightened, Daryl was about two feet before him. Their eyes met again and neither said a word, both awkwardly facing each other in silence. The taller man’s gaze dropped to the bags on the floor and he lifted an arm to scratch the back of his head.

“Sorry, didn’t know you were goin’ to the store. Just made somethin’ from what you had.”

Paul flicked his eyes to the stove behind him. He couldn’t quite tell what the older man was cooking, but the boiling pot on the stove indicated it was probably some sort of pasta. He honestly didn’t care if Daryl had made him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—his heart swelled just at the fact that he’d cooked, period. Daryl hadn’t done that before.

“No, no that’s okay,” Paul said. “I stopped there after work, figured we could use a few more things.”

Daryl gave a short nod, biting his lip.

“Thank you,” Paul added, gesturing to the stove behind them, “you didn’t have to cook.”

The older man’s eyes flicked to the floor and he shrugged. “S’whatever. Only pasta.”

Paul stifled a smile. “Oh? Which one did you choose?” he said, bending down to pick up one bag and bring it into the kitchen to start unpacking its items.

Daryl followed him, bringing along two bags himself. “Uh, the little shell ones.”

“Sounds good,” Paul said as he pushed a box of cereal into one cabinet. After he finished, he turned around to see Daryl unloading another bag into the fridge, door propped open with his socked foot.

“Hey,” Paul said, stepping over to the the man. “Don’t worry, I can take care of this—”

“Nah, I can do it. Pasta’s got a few more minutes anyway.”

He watched as the man slipped his tongue from his lips, biting on it softly in concentration as he hoisted up the bag in one arm and maneuvered space in the fridge with the other. Paul was nearly distracted by the way the muscles of Daryl's arm flexed beneath his flannel, but then he remembered what he’d left on the car.

“Oh,” Paul muttered to himself. He fished his car keys from his back pocket and began stepping toward the door.

Daryl turned his head curiously, pausing his movements as he watched the man. “Where you goin’?” he asked.

“Forgot something,” Paul said as he twisted the door knob.

“Need help?”

Paul glanced back over his shoulder. He hadn't bought a large tree because there wasn’t enough room for it in the apartment, but it was still pretty sizable and would be difficult to transport through several doors and in the elevator with only one person. “You might need to turn off the pasta.”

 

* * *

 

 

When they arrived down in the parking lot, Paul led them to his sedan.

Unfortunately he’d only been able to find a parking spot in one of the further rows, so the car wasn’t located in a convenient area beside the sidewalk. The frigid chill had somehow gotten worse in the twenty minutes or so he’d been inside, but he still had on his leather coat and beanie so he wasn’t completely freezing. Daryl, on the other hand, was only wearing a teeshirt and flannel, jeans, and his boots. Paul knew the man must be uncomfortable, so he kept his pace quick.

When they finally arrived, Paul turned around and gestured toward the car behind him. “So, it was supposed to be a surprise.”

Daryl gave him a questioning look, his brows furrowing. His face was red from windchill, his nose especially bright. “What’re you ta—”

The man stopped his words as his gaze met the five-foot-five tree strapped to the car’s roof. His expression fell from confusion to silent surprise. His breathing was steady but deep, little wafts of air visible around his mouth as he exhaled in the cold night air.

Paul smirked and stepped over to Daryl, turning around and standing next to him so they were side by side. “It’s not the biggest, but its pretty symmetrical I guess.”

Daryl was still silent, so Paul turned slightly to face him. “You said you never had one at home before,” he said softly, “so I thought it’d be nice.”

The taller man’s eyes darted to Paul’s. For several seconds his soft gaze was unwavering, but then it broke slightly as he cleared his throat and swallowed.

“Thank you,” Daryl said. His eyes then returned to Paul, the same deep gaze piercing through Paul’s heart. Even though it was freezing outside, he felt warm.

“You’re welcome.”

After several more seconds of staring, Paul broke their eye contact and began stepping toward the car. “Might need some help taking it down.”

Daryl snorted. “Might?”

The shorter man threw narrowed eyes over his shoulder to the man behind him. “Hey. I may be short, but I can climb on top if I need to. I’m very agile.”

Smirking, Daryl walked over to where Paul stood. “Was only teasin.’”

A smirk of Paul’s own broke onto his lips.

 

* * *

 

 

A half hour later, the tree stood in the corner of Paul’s apartment next to the pull-out couch.

After they had placed the tree and fastened it into the stand Paul had bought, Daryl returned to cooking the pasta. Once appropriately boiled, he lathered the shells in butter and sprinkle cheese and then poured the meal out into two bowls.

Instead of sitting in their usual seats at the table, both ended up settling cross-legged on the bed—Jesus with his back to the tree and Daryl across from him on the opposite side of the bed facing it. The steam from the hot, buttery pasta warmed them as the smell of pine wafted through the air.

“Thanks for dinner,” Paul said after a minute or so of silent eating.

Daryl shrugged. “S’no problem. Was easy, ain’t anythin’ fancy.”

“Well it tastes good,” Paul said with a small smile. “That’s all that matters.”

Another minute of quiet passed. Paul watched as Daryl’s eyes traveled from his bowl to settle on the tree. The smaller man glanced behind himself to see if the man was staring at something in particular, but when he didn’t notice anything he returned his gaze to the man and raised a questioning brow.

Daryl cleared his throat. “Y’got anythin’ to decorate it with?” he asked, pointing his fork to the tree.

Paul paused, swallowing the pasta he was chewing. He hadn’t thought about that. He didn’t own Christmas lights or any ornaments. Pursing his lips, he ran one hand through his hair. He looked at Daryl, who seemed amused, and he couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his lips.

“So I’m an idiot.”

Daryl smiled, softly chuckling through his nose.

Paul sighed, placing his bowl in his lap. “Sorry.”

“I don’t care, we can always go get somethin’ tomorrow,” Daryl said before taking another bite of his pasta.

Paul nodded and raised his fork to his own mouth.

Several moments of quiet passed, neither speaking as they ate.

A memory bubbled into Paul’s consciousness and he smirked. “I remember this one time when I was really little—my father was stringing white lights around the tree. Except we bought this huge one and we didn’t have enough lights to fill the bottom half. So my dad went out to the convenience store across the street and picked up another box. He strung them on the tree, all seemed well. However, when he plugged it in, the original set on the tree completely blew out. My dad also didn’t realize that he had bought a special blinking set at the store, so the bottom half looked like a twinkling rainbow. My mother was so frustrated she unwrapped the whole tree and then put some garland around it and called it a day. I remember being upset because I really loved the rainbow lights,” he snorted with light laughter. “Probably a sign of my eventual homosexuality.”

Daryl had been watching Paul the whole story, bowl now perched in his lap as well. He began chewing on the dry skin of his bottom lip. He was quiet for a moment, then: “How’d you know?”

Paul looked up, brows raised. _Is he asking what I think he’s asking?_

“That you were, y’know,” Daryl continued, not quite meeting Paul’s eyes.

_He’s definitely asking what I think he’s asking._

“Gay?” Paul offered.

Daryl cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

Paul exhaled, trying his best to seem casual. “Well, I never liked girls, so that kind of clued me in, but it wasn’t until seventh grade that I actually put two and two together.”

The older man watched him quietly.

“There was this kid, Mark. He used to sit next to me in math class. We’d always pair up for partner activities and chat when we weren’t supposed to be talking, that kind of thing. One day, we met after school in the cafeteria to work on an assignment and ended up joking around the entire time. There was this moment where I thought “I really want to kiss him,” and that’s when it sort of clicked. Took me about a year to come to terms with it—I’d never known anyone who was gay and my family certainly didn’t talk about it. In ninth grade I went to this Halloween party in my friend’s basement and made out with a Junior in the bathroom. After that, there was no doubt in my mind that I was gay.”

“S’that when you told your parents?” Daryl asked. Paul remembered how he’d referenced the story when he'd gotten drunk the night before Thanksgiving.

“No, I avoided telling them for several months. I wasn’t sure how they’d take it, you know? But then I started seeing this guy Andrew and the entire school found out about it. It was the gossip of the year, everyone was like _'Can you believe Paul Rovia_ _that karate guy is gay?’_ ” Paul said, imitating a scandalized voice. “I knew it was only a matter of time until it reached my parents. This one afternoon I brought Andrew over my house while my parents were still at work. We had sex for the first time. Then my bedroom door swings open—my mother had come home early and heard noises upstairs. Andrew left, but I really didn’t have a choice but to tell my parents the truth.

They were shocked more than anything. My mom eventually accepted it, she tried to understand. It was harder for my dad. But yeah, lost my virginity and came out on the same day.”

Daryl looked down at his bowl, then quickly glanced up to Paul. “I’m sorry.”

Paul shrugged one shoulder. It was a long time ago. It had been difficult, yes, but it was nothing compared to what he knew Daryl must have suffered through. “Don’t be, it’s alright.”

The younger man felt the air between them grow tenser, so he smirked and redirected the subject. “What about you? Who was the lucky individual who you lost your virginity to?”

Daryl’s face reddened and his eyes dropped to the bed. He rubbed the back of his head with one hand. “Never knew her name.”

_Her. Okay._

Paul knew that didn’t necessarily mean Daryl couldn't like men as well or that he couldn't have changed his mind about women later on in life, but he kept his mind realistic and stilled the sinking feeling in his stomach. Daryl was probably straight, just like he always suspected.

“Oh?” Paul asked, pretending like he wasn’t affected by the man’s admission.

“Yeah. She was a hooker. One of Merle’s clients. He told her she didn’t have to pay for the coke if she fucked me.”

Paul’s smile dropped and his heart sunk into his stomach. He suddenly felt sick.

“Need a beer,” Daryl said then, pushing off the bed, empty bowl in hand. He placed it in the sink and then opened the fridge to retrieve the drink. He snapped open the can lid and took a gulp before returning to the couch.

“Daryl, I—” Paul started, but was unsure what to say next. He felt horrible for even bringing the subject up. In fact, he should just stop talking altogether. He wanted Daryl to open up when he felt comfortable doing so, not because he was pressuring him into answering stupid questions.

“It’s fine,” Daryl rasped before taking a swig of his beer.

Paul shifted closer on the bed, eyes wide. “No, it’s not. I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything that you don’t want to. I just,” Paul sighed, “I meant what I said the other night. I’m here.”

Daryl swallowed, slitted eyes gazing into Paul’s own. After several seconds he lowered the can to his lap and his eyes followed to meet it.

“The whole thing didn’t last long. She didn't seem too into it, neither was I really, but I’d rather have been there than back at home. Dad was real drunk that night. And when he was real drunk he got out the belt and whipped the shit out of me.”

Paul exhaled through his nose. He felt a lump form in his throat and the sudden urge to cry, but he swallowed and pushed the thoughts away. He didn’t want to upset Daryl more than he already had.

"I'm so sorry."

Daryl gnawed on his lip. He made a small movement that was half shrug and half nod and then lifted his beer, taking a long chug.

"We don't have to talk about it," Paul murmured.

The older man lowered the can and wiped his lips on the flannel on the back of his forearm.

"Never have before," Daryl admitted, voice low.

Paul thought back to the friends Daryl had talked about in the past. "Not with Rick or Carol?"

Daryl shook his head. "Nah. Rick knows about Merle but that's it. Carol figured some out 'cause she's been through stuff too with her ex, but she don't like talking about it."

Paul nodded silently, round eyes meeting Daryl’s. “Well, you can tell me anything," he murmured. "Or nothing. Whatever makes you comfortable."

"Ain't good with, I'unno," Daryl said, gesturing his hand near his mouth, "Just talkin.'"

Something clicked in Paul's mind—maybe Daryl needed Paul to ask. He knew from personal experience how hard it was just to completely open up without any direct incentive. The older man had always needed some prodding, even from the beginning of their acquaintance, so he figured it wouldn’t be any different with this. There was only so much one could blurt out without losing their nerve, feeling awkward, or getting overly emotional.

"How long did it go on for?" Paul said, voice soft. "With your dad, I mean."

Daryl swallowed. "Mostly ended after I moved out when I was seventeen."

Paul let out a breath through his nose, eyes still on Daryl. “And your mom? You said she—“

"Yeah. Died when I was eleven."

_Eleven. That means Daryl was being abused before then based on what he'd said about his mom ignoring it._

“Did Merle know?” Paul asked, voice barely above a whisper.

The older man took a breath and then lifted his beer to his lips. After he swallowed a sip, he returned his eyes to Paul. “Not until years later. My dad had done it to ‘m too until he left for juvie.”

Paul noticed Daryl’s hand that wasn't holding the beer was trembling slightly, fingers twitching nervously against each other. He lifted the can again and tilted his head back, apple of his throat pulsing as he finished off the remainder of the liquid.

 _I ain’t someone you would’ve ever wanted to know,_ Paul thought, remembering the man’s words three days back.

Swallowing, Paul reached his hand across the space between them and placed it over the man’s twitching one. It stilled immediately under his touch, and Daryl’s eyes darted up to meet Paul’s.

“Thank you for telling me,” Paul whispered.

 

* * *

 

“So I bought my mom these personalized stamps for her cookies. You can put them on boxes, wrapping, whatever. You know how she’s always giving those plates away. Oh, and I got her this Kate Spade wallet she wanted.”

“That’s nice,” Paul said through his computer. Tara had made him FaceTime. Something about ‘missing his face’ or whatever.

“What’d you get your parents?”

Paul sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Nothing yet.”

“Dude, you realize Christmas is in four days, right?” Tara asked with a raised brow.

“I’m aware. I just send them something every year.”

Tara nodded. “Could go the gift card route.”

“Maybe. So when are you heading home?” he asked, changing the subject.

The brunette sipped through the straw of Starbucks she was drinking. She was the only person Paul knew that ordered iced coffee in the middle of winter. He’d bought her a gift-card as one of her Christmas gifts and it looked like she was already putting it to good use.

“Thursday. I’m driving down with Rosita around ten, I think.”

Paul smirked. “She’s coming with?”

“Yeah, well I went with her for Thanksgiving and she can’t afford to take another trip to Texas so soon. I invited you too, asshole, but you said no,” she said with a pout.

“It’s okay Tara, really.”

“Are you just going to hang around town?”

Paul nodded, leaning back against his pillows on his bed. “Yeah.”

“Daryl staying too or is he visiting family?”

“He hasn’t said anything, so I’m assuming he’ll be here.”

A wicked smile blossomed across his friend’s lips. “ _I’m assuming he’ll be here,_ ” Tara mimicked, voice an octave lower.

Paul rolled his eyes. “Stop.”

“Looked at your tree selfie from a few weeks ago lately?”

“Tara,” Paul warned.

“Oh come on, Jesus. All of us know there’s something going on.”

“There’s nothing going on.”

“Okay, okay,” Tara conceded. “When you want to tell me, tell me, but I better get all the juicy details.”

Paul sighed again, rubbing his face once more.

“In all seriousness though, are you getting him anything?”

Dropping his hand, Paul met Tara’s eyes through the screen. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to be…weird.”

Tara cocked her head. “Why would it be weird?”

“I don’t want him to feel like he needs to get me anything. He’s trying to save.”

It was Tara’s turn to roll her eyes. “The point of giving someone something is because you care about them, right? He doesn’t have to know you’re doing it.”

Paul watched her quietly. He knew she was right.

“Is there anything he really likes?”

“Bikes,” Paul answered with a smirk. “But I can’t exactly buy him that. I wouldn’t even know where to start with accessories or what not. He likes to hunt too, but he doesn’t do it much anymore.”

Tara nodded, smiling softly. “Is there anything he needs?”

Paul raised his brows. “God, he could use a winter sweater. A scarf, gloves, anything.”

His friend’s smile widened. “Those all sound like nice gifts to me.”

“What if he doesn’t want that?” Paul asked.

“I think he’ll like it, Jesus.”

 

* * *

 

 

Paul drove to the mall the next day. He bought a big sweater and a pair of nice leather gloves from Lord and Taylor that he thought the older man would wear. The gloves were simple and classy, but insulated enough to be practical. He’d asked the sales associate if they’d be okay to wear when driving a motorcycle. He wasn’t sure if he had received the usual overselling bullshit, but man had seemed convinced the pair in question were perfect for the occasion.

 

* * *

 

 

Christmas Eve came quicker than Paul thought it would. Early in the day, Daryl told Paul he had some last minute projects to finish at the shop, which he found odd but not totally surprising given how increased holiday traffic led to more accidents and car troubles. He figured Daryl needed the money, so he didn’t question it.

Paul spent the day calling family, watching television, and wrapping his presents for Daryl. He was strangely nervous in regards to the last one: he had no idea how the man would react. What if he didn’t like them? What if he thought it was weird that he’d bought him a present?

Daryl came back just before five with dinner for them both—their favorite Chinese from _Sichuan Gourmet._ They ended up on the pull-out couch watching corny holiday movies on the Hallmark channel as they ate directly from the takeout cartons. Paul used the chopsticks while Daryl opted for a fork.

“Damn kid shoulda known the snowman was gonna melt,” Daryl commented after one movie, a live-action reimagining of Frosty the Snowman, "never woulda been friends with him and he’d’ve saved himself the trouble.”

Paul laughed, nearly choking on the dumpling he was eating. “Okay, Mr. Grinch,” he smirked after he swallowed.

“Just sayin,’” Daryl said, stuffing a forkful of lo-mein into his mouth.

Another movie and several cartons of food later, both sat side by side on the bed. The temperature in his apartment had significantly dropped over the past two hours. The heating was never great to begin with, but with the cold wave the place didn’t stand a chance. It didn’t matter how much he complained to his landlord—it wasn’t getting fixed anytime soon.

“It’s damn freezin’ in here,” Daryl said to no one in particular.

“I’ll try the thermostat, who knows if that’ll do anything,” Paul said, slipping from the bed and walking over to the fixture on the wall. He pressed the heat up several degrees and hoped for the best.

He glanced back at Daryl. He was rubbing his hands over his thin flannel covered arms, eyes fixed on the television.

“Actually,” Paul said, “I um, I have something for you.”

Daryl glanced at him, expression one of confusion. “What?”

“One sec,” Paul muttered before crossing the room and stepping into his bedroom. He gathered the two gifts and returned to the living area. Daryl had muted the TV and was still sitting there looking completely lost.

“So I uh, I was going to give them to you tomorrow obviously, but I guess—here just open them,” Paul said, sitting down at the edge of the bed beside him and handing over the presents.

Daryl stared at him, lips slightly parted. He then glanced down at the gifts. “Didn’t have to.”

“It’s just a little something, don’t even worry about it.” _He doesn’t want them. He’s going to hate it._

The older man gently tore at the wrapping paper, opening the gloves first. He took them into his hands and rubbed his thumbs against the leather.

“They’re real leather and they’re warm,” Paul explained. “I tried them on. I mean, they were way too big for me, but they’re insulated. Oh, and the uh, the guy, the sales employee I mean, he said they’d be good if you’re out riding the bike.”

_I sound like an idiot. Pull yourself together, Rovia._

“These are real nice,” Daryl said, thumb still rubbing over the leather.

“Open the next one,” Paul instructed, voice calmer this time around.

Daryl placed the gloves gently down onto the comforter of the bed and started ripping apart the wrapping paper. The large, dark green winter sweater spilled out.

“It’s super comfortable—I also tried it on. Again, way too big. Anyway, you can wear it now if you want, since you’re cold.”

The older man glanced up at Paul briefly before taking the sweater into his hands and pulling it over his head, arms pushing through the sleeves. He pulled it down his torso and then straightened his shoulders, letting it fall into place. The piece of clothing was slightly oversized on him as well, but that’s what Paul had been hoping for. He wanted it to feel cozy.

“I wouldn’t judge you if you wore it to sleep,” Paul laughed. “Damn cold apartment.”

The corner of Daryl’s lips quirked slightly in a smile. His dark hair was slightly rumpled from the sweater and Paul wanted to reach out and run his hands through it.

“Is it warm?” Paul asked.

“Yeah, s’good,” Daryl nodded, glancing down at the garment.

“Good.”

“Thank you, you didn’t have’ta,” the older man murmured after a moment.

“I wanted to.”

Daryl took a breath and matched his gaze to Paul’s. “I uh, I have somethin’ for ya too. Just have to get it tomorrow.”

Paul smirked. He knew the man was only saying that to make him feel better that he didn’t have a gift in return, but he didn’t care. He was just glad Daryl liked the gifts.

“No, don’t worry about it, Daryl. Really.”

Daryl gave him a strange look but didn’t respond.

They chatted and Daryl tried on the gloves. When the older man yawned several minutes later, Paul said goodnight and headed back to his room to sleep. In a fantasy world, he would have stayed by his side all night, laughing over stupid movies and huddled near his sweater-clad warmth, but he returned back to his own bed nonetheless.

After sinking into his mattress, he closed his eyes. He fell asleep thinking about Daryl and the way he’d feel sleeping in his arms.

 

* * *

 

 

Paul was woken from his sleep by a noise coming from the living room. Immediately he blinked open crusted eyes, squinting into the morning light as he propped himself up on an elbow.

He heard a soft thump. Then another.

Paul reached out for his phone on his bedside table and read the time: **6:53 AM.**

He wondered what Daryl could be doing so early in the morning—they hadn’t made any plans for Christmas day, especially not at this time. Typically the man didn’t wake up before eight if he didn’t have to. In fact, Paul would have expected him to sleep in as late as possible given the holiday.

Suddenly Paul wondered if something was wrong, heart quickening in his chest. Even though he was barely awake, he needed to go out there and see what was going on, just to make sure he was alright.

He sleepily pushed off his covers and slid off the bed, bare feet cold against the wooden floor. He padded to his door and opened it, walking into the living area.

“Hey, you okay—”

Paul’s words were lost as he stood facing the living area. The wall opposite him was usually bare save for the stacks of books piled in the corner. Now, standing in its place was a dark, wooden bookcase. Each row was nearly filled with books.

Daryl was squatted on the ground next to it, placing a volume in the bottom shelf. He stood immediately when he noticed Paul and turned around to face him.

The man’s hair was messy, little waves at the bottom dancing near his shoulders. He was still wearing the green sweater from last night.

“Sorry, was tryin’ not to wake ya.”

Paul’s eyes darted from Daryl to the bookcase and back to Daryl. “What…” he trailed off.

“I uh, I’ve been workin’ on it for ya for a while,” Daryl said, awkwardly shifting in place.

Paul stepped forward, eyes locked on the wooden bookcase. “You made this?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.”

Paul swallowed as a lump began forming in his throat.

“I…I organized it the way you had them,” Daryl said, breaking the silence. He turned and stood next to Paul, gesturing at the bookcase.

The shorter man turned his head and looked up at Daryl.

“Ones you’ve already read are on the bottom,” he continued. “Ones you haven’t read yet are in the middle, ones you’ve read but are other editions are on the top.”

A deep wave of emotion washed over Paul’s body. He was speechless, eyes wide as he met Daryl’s gaze.

Paul was trying his best to quell the emotion bubbling up from his throat, but it was too intense and he felt his eyes begin to moisten. He could feel his face going red with embarrassment, so he flicked his eyes back to the bookcase and swallowed down the lump once more.

“Daryl,” he said, clearing his throat. “This is beautiful.”

He sensed the man tense next to him.

Paul turned, facing Daryl. They both stood before the bookcase.

“Thank you. I—no one’s ever done anything like this for me,” Paul admitted, voice soft.

Daryl’s cheeks pinked and he dropped his eyes to the floor. “Glad you like it.”

Their eyes met again. Then it hit Paul, swelled heart radiating warmth through all his veins.

For all that Daryl had suffered through in his life, for all the pain he’d withstood and carried with him for years, for all he’d done for Merle, for all he’d been since they’d met—irritable, sweet, snarky, shy, tortured, humorous, kind—for all of it, he loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to this on repeat writing the final part of the chapter. It's really beautiful, I recommend a listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Se6-q57xJCg&index=12&list=PLl0ounyGJ8yxzz5aX8eHqCpV_qb1kFwx7
> 
> Comments are always appreciated and help me write faster. :)


	15. Chapter 15

Paul couldn’t sleep.

He’d already tried all his usual remedies: listening to his white noise playlist, reading passages from _War and Peace_ , doing reps of sit-ups and crunches on the floor. Yet nothing had helped ease his restless mind.

He wanted to blame it on the newfound stuffiness of his bedroom (his landlord finally made adjustments to the heating system after the New Year, but somehow that had just turned his apartment into a stale sauna) his sweaty sheets, or the incessant pattering of rain on the windowsill. He wanted to believe his own excuses, but he couldn’t deny the true reason for his sleepless night.

Daryl.

Ever since his realization two and half weeks ago, his sleep schedule had taken a turn for the worst. He’d never been particularly good at falling asleep, hence the routines of music and reading, but this was an escalation of his usual experience. Some nights were better than others, but often he’d been staying up for hours, mind focused on the man sleeping outside his door. He’d been trying his best to act normally during the daytime, to not make his feelings completely transparent when they hung out together as usual. When he was alone in his room at night, however, his mind was free to lose control.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Paul had thought it was difficult dealing with his attraction to Daryl and that it’d be a problem when he realized he had feelings for him, but all of that was nothing compared to knowing he was in love. His mind was constantly at war with itself, one half over the moon with how much he stupidly loved the man he was lucky enough to spend every day with, the other terrified that their friendship would be forever ruined by his hidden feelings.

This wasn’t just some harmless attraction or crush—it was real and unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, which just added to his growing terror. He couldn’t forget this or sweep it under the rug for his conscious mind to ignore. Each time Daryl quirked up his lips into a smile or locked blue eyes with his own, Paul wanted to pull him close and press their lips together. Every time he referenced his parents or Merle, Paul wanted to blurt out the truth, tell him how much he loved him and that he’d never hurt him. He’d also found himself fixating on the man’s broad shoulders and narrow waist, wishing he could pull his body against his bare skin and feel Daryl around and inside him, showing him he was the only man he wanted.

Paul groaned at the thought, placing one hand over his face as he lay in bed, sweaty sheets pushed down to allow his bare torso some air. It wasn’t like he hadn’t imagined it before…having sex with Daryl. It’d passed through his mind quite a few times if he was being honest with himself. He’d brushed it off in the beginning as a silly, hopeless fantasy--nothing to worry his mind with too seriously. He'd mostly attributed it to his horniness since he hadn’t had sex with anyone since Alex. Once he realized his feelings, it became harder to ignore his attraction to the older man, but it wasn’t like he expected anything to come of it either way. He didn’t want to think about it.

However, the temptation had been harder to deny these past few weeks. Today had been particularly rough. Daryl had returned home from the shop bundled up in his leather jacket and gloves. The apartment’s stuffiness was a harsh contrast to the frigid outdoor air, so the man had grumbled and quickly unzipped his coat, tossing it onto the couch bed. He’d placed the gloves on the side table and then pulled off his sweater—the one Paul had bought him for Christmas, Daryl had been wearing it so often he’d had to remind him to do his laundry—and laid it on the bed as well. His thin t-shirt underneath was tight around his shoulders and revealed strong, bare arms. Paul’s eyes drifted over his biceps and forearms down to his hands. They were wide and large compared to his own, and his heart nearly burst in his chest as his mind pictured those hands on him…inside him.

Paul dropped the hand on his face with an exhale. God, Daryl was gorgeous. He could only imagine what it’d feel like to kiss his soft lips, to run his fingers through those dark locks. He wanted Daryl’s scent all around him, his broad chest heavy against his own, his big hands on his skin.

Eyes closed, he wondered what the older man would be like in bed—he could be equally aggressive as he was quiet and shy. Maybe he would push Daryl down onto his mattress, climb on top, see what he liked. Maybe Daryl would want to fuck him, or maybe he’d want to be fucked…

_Shit._

Paul hastily fumbled into his boxers and took himself in hand.

It didn’t last long. When he finished, his stomach sunk immediately.

_He doesn’t want you, he’s your friend. What are you doing?_

Lungs still panting from his elevated heart rate, Paul kicked off the rest of his covers and pushed himself out of bed. He needed a shower. He wasn’t getting any sleep tonight.

 

* * *

 

Paul placed three shots of tequila on the bar. The customer—a young man in his early twenties—gave a quick smile before handing over his credit card. As he turned to swipe it in the cashier, Kal walked behind the bar, empty tub in hand.

“Hey man,” he said as he gathered a few dirty glasses from the back ledge.

“Hey,” Paul greeted, finishing his transaction. He handed the card back to the man and watched as he precariously balanced all three shot glasses in his hands and walked into the crowd.

Kal placed the now-filled tub on the lower counter near Paul. “So I’m heading out early tonight.”

Paul inhaled a deep breath. Without Kal, it would just be him and Gregory closing, which was not something he was particularly inclined to deal with at the moment.

“Does Gregory know?” Paul asked, keeping his tone level as to not reveal his own frustration.

“Yeah, he’s cool with it. You okay with closing alone?”

The bartender turned, brows furrowed. “Alone?”

“Gregory said something about heading out after last call.”

Sighing, Paul pressed his eyes closed. He’d been hoping to get home at a relatively decent hour. He hadn’t slept last night—for reasons he wouldn’t think about again right now—and closing would take at least forty extra minutes without additional help.

“I’ll make it up to you, cover a shift,” Kal offered.

“Fine,” Paul said curtly, eyes now open. He was exhausted and not in the mood to discuss it further. He’d just snap at Kal, which would only cause more issues.

His coworker nodded and took the tub into his hands. “Alright, thanks,” he said before walking out from the bar and into the back.

_Great, another long night._

 

* * *

 

When he arrived home it was nearly half past four in the morning. The bar had been unusually packed for a Thursday night, most likely due to both the cold weather and the upcoming long weekend, and cleaning up had taken nearly double the time as it normally did.

The apartment was dark when he stepped through the door, meaning that Daryl was already asleep. He didn’t know why that made him feel disappointed; while the man often was still awake when Paul returned home, of course he wouldn’t stay up this late. Yet, he looked forward to talking with Daryl after a long day at work, he found it soothing to decompress in that way before heading to bed. He liked seeing the man perched on the messy couch bed reading a book, attempting to cook something in the kitchen, or bundled under the comforter watching the History channel. Paul's routine hadn’t changed, his apartment hadn’t changed, but just seeing Daryl there felt like coming home more than it ever had in the past.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Paul spotted the man sleeping on the pull-out couch. He had left the window on the far wall next to the bookcase slightly open for fresh air, so there was a slight cool breeze, but the apartment was still relatively stuffy and warm. Daryl had kicked down most the comforter around his feet, body only covered by a thin under sheet.

Quietly, Paul toed off his boots and padded across the floor toward his bedroom. While he was light-footed, one floorboard mid-way through the room always creaked no matter how nimble he was being. Paul winced at the noise and paused, flicking his eyes to the couch to see if he'd woken Daryl. It was dark, but he could make out that the man’s eyes were still closed.

The smaller man continued his path until he reached his bedroom. As he opened the door, however, he heard a rustling of fabric to his right.

“Paul?”

The younger man turned to face the couch. Daryl’s eyes were barely open, but he was awake.

“Yeah?” Paul whispered.

“Was waitin’ for ya, fell asleep, sorry,” he sleepily mumbled. “What time s’it?”

Paul felt his chest tighten and a smile play at his lips. “It’s late. Go back to sleep,” he murmured.

Daryl scrunched his face and shifted positions, moving onto his back. He pushed the sheet down his torso and grunted. “Fuckin’ hot.”

“I know,” Paul sighed. He glanced back at the window. “Here, I’ll open this more,” he said as he traveled back to the other side of the room.

He felt the older man’s eyes on him as he lifted the glass higher, letting more cold air sift into the apartment. When he turned around, Daryl was giving him one of his deep, piercing looks.

It was moments like these that made Paul’s heart stop, that made him think maybe, just maybe Daryl could feel the same way.

Paul swallowed, heart now pumping wildly in his chest. Daryl’s eyes hadn’t faltered from his own.

He briefly considered doing something rash, but quashed the idea a moment later. Paul thought of the bookcase that stood next to him—simple, but strong and beautiful. Daryl had told him how he’d worked for a craftsman while traveling with Merle before they set down roots at the auto shop. The man was hired mostly for the heavy lifting, but he’d learned some basics along the way. That had been many years ago, but Daryl had still chosen to make the item by hand instead of buying something pre-made from a store. Paul knew it wasn’t a case of money because there were plenty of cheap items at Walmart and the like. The man had chosen to dedicate his time and money into creating something thoughtful and special for Paul. Daryl cared for Paul—as a friend. That was enough.

“I should go to bed,” Paul said a bit too quickly.  

Daryl narrowed his eyes, suspicious, but he didn’t push the issue. “Kay,” he mumbled.

Paul walked back to his bedroom, chest still thumping. He probably wasn’t sleeping tonight either.

 

* * *

 

 

 

> **Tara 7:34 PM:** Yo where you at

Paul snorted as he read the text. He typed a quick response and then pocketed his phone into his coat.

 

 

> **Paul 7:34 PM:** Just leaving work. Getting into my car

He felt the device vibrate once, then twice against his stomach as he slammed his sedan’s door shut. He hadn’t talked to Tara in a few days, so he knew she was probably interested in catching up, but he didn’t want to start a texting conversation before he had to drive home.

It seemed like Tara agreed to some extent because his phone began buzzing in a steady rhythm. If she couldn’t text, she called.

Paul started the engine quickly and buckled his seatbelt before removing the phone from his pocket. He answered the call and put it on speakerphone, balancing it face-up in the cupholder.

“Hey Tara,” he answered as he began backing out of his parking spot.

“Hey yourself. How are you?”

Inhaling, Paul considered his answer. Kal had followed through with his promise from last week—he was covering closing tonight and Paul’s Saturday shift tomorrow—allowing him to leave early. Gregory had been grouchy, but what else was new.

“Okay I guess,” Paul answered honestly. “Glad to be going home.”

Tara hummed. “I’ll bet.”

Paul rolled his eyes.

“Anyway,” Tara continued, “you and Daryl got plans tomorrow?”

He wanted to scold Tara for referencing them like they were some _couple_ , but saying it out loud would hurt himself more than her, so he kept quiet.

“No, don’t think so.”

“Good. Eugene’s birthday isn’t until Monday, but we’re thinking of going out tomorrow to celebrate. Maybe Black Clover? We can eat and drink there—plus Rosita says Eugene loves their nachos.”

The last time Paul had been to the pub was with Daryl after the tree ceremony. He’d never had a qualm with the food nor the drinks, so he figured it would be nice low-key spot to hang out. The location was convenient too. “Sounds good,” Paul responded.

“Eight work?"

Paul cleared his throat as he turned to exit the parking lot. “Yeah, we’ll be there.”

 _We’ll._ He hadn’t meant to say that.

“Perfect. Alright, I’ll let you drive home. Say hi to Daryl for me.”

Paul felt an uneasiness in stomach. Each time Tara implied he and Daryl were together, he had to remind himself they weren’t. And probably won’t ever be.

He needed a drink. Or two.

“I will. See you tomorrow,” he answered, masking the sadness in his voice.

After Tara said her goodbye and ended the call, Paul drove home in silence.

 

* * *

 

Paul returned to an empty apartment. Daryl had mentioned he was working on refurbishing a truck last week, so he figured that’s why he was working later than usual.

Once in his bedroom, he dropped his gym bag on the floor and stripped off his coat, gloves, and shirt, tossing them onto his bed. Shirtless, Paul toed off his boots and padded into the kitchen. He’d been fantasizing about having a glass of alcohol the entire drive back.

He knew beer wouldn’t be enough to dull his active mind—he needed something hard. He reached up on his tip toes to pull a bottle of unopened bourbon from one of the top cabinets and grabbed a glass from the shelf below. He unscrewed the cap and poured a healthy amount into the cup.

Paul knocked back a gulp and then walked into the bathroom, drink in tow. After another sip, he turned on the shower.

 

* * *

 

After he bathed, he dried off with a clean towel and wrapped it snugly around his waist. Paul picked up his half-finished glass of bourbon from the sink and drank the remaining liquid, cringing at the burn.

When he walked out of the bathroom, bare aside from the towel around his waist and the empty glass in his hand, the front door opened.

Daryl entered the apartment.

The older man didn’t see him at first: he was focused on removing his set of spare keys from the lock, neck bent slightly and dark hair in his eyes. Then he reached down to untie his boots and pulled them from his feet.

Maybe it was the generous portion of bourbon he’d consumed or maybe it was just shock, but Paul's body froze in front the open bathroom door, steam from the recent shower slowly filtering into the living area. As the older man straightened from his bent position, he did a double take when his eyes came in contact with Paul. Daryl’s expression faltered, cheeks flushing into a bright red.

The biker broke his gaze and immediately moved into the living room near the bed, his eyes decidedly avoiding Paul’s form. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

They’d both gotten into the habit of bringing their clothes into the bathroom with them so that awkward situations like this didn’t occur, but Paul had been so occupied that he hadn’t remembered to grab something to wear.

“That’s okay,” Paul said, acting his best to seem nonchalant even though his heart was pounding. He padded barefoot into the kitchen to place the empty glass into the sink. Once the item was deposited, Paul paused outside the entrance to his bedroom, facing Daryl.

The older man was fumbling to unzip his leather jacket, teeth nibbling on his bottom lip. Once he managed to pull it off, he tossed the garment onto the couch-bed. He glanced at Paul once again, eyes meeting his bare chest.

A swell of confidence washed over Paul as the older man’s eyes dropped from his chest to his torso.

His heart started racing. _Maybe he…_

After several seconds their eyes met, Daryl’s immediately jetting away as his face deepened its redness.

“So how was your day?” Paul blurted, hoping the question would dissipate some of the tense air between them.

“Fine,” Daryl answered. He then dropped onto the bed and reclined, head landing on the pillow and eyes facing the ceiling. His face was still red.

With that, Paul cleared his throat and stepped through the doorway. “Just gonna change,” he said before shutting the door behind himself.

Once alone, he exhaled a large breath, running a hand through his wet hair. Somehow he wasn’t even surprised that had just happened. The universe wanted to torture him.

Yet, he couldn’t deny that Daryl had been staring. He knew he shouldn't be so naive, but maybe it meant something. Maybe it had been more than just curiosity or awkward shock. Maybe…maybe Daryl had wanted to look.

 

* * *

 

The next day Paul woke around twelve in the afternoon. His mind had been running all night with thoughts of Daryl—both good and bad—and he hadn’t fallen asleep until nearly five-thirty in the morning. He was glad he didn’t have to work and was able to sleep in, otherwise he wasn’t sure he would be able to stay up late tonight for the party.

When he finally emerged from his bedroom, Daryl was at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal in his t-shirt and sweatpants. An open box of Cheerios and carton of milk sat next to him.  

_I guess he slept late too._

Their eyes met and his mind flashed to the evening before, Daryl’s gaze on his bare chest. The memory caused his cheeks to blush in a flame of heat, but he pushed the thought from his mind. This is exactly what he was afraid of—not being able to be friends because of his feelings. Maybe something had happened last night, maybe something didn’t. He wasn’t going to risk their friendship over a look.

“Morning,” he said with a quick smile.

Daryl chewed and swallowed his mouthful, lowering his spoon into the nearly-finished bowl. “Hey.”

The younger man grabbed a bowl and spoon of his own and took a seat next to Daryl. He poured the Cheerios into the bowl and finished with a splash of milk.

“So Tara invited us out tonight,” Paul started after a few minutes. “Eugene’s birthday.”

Daryl leaned back in his chair. “His birthday’s today?”

“Well, Monday technically. They’re celebrating tonight.”

“Should we, uh, get him somethin’?”

Paul smirked as he swallowed. _I guess that means he wants to go._

“We usually just buy each other drinks for birthdays,” Paul answered.

Daryl nodded.

A sudden thought passed through Paul’s mind. He lowered his spoon, resting it inside the bowl. “When’s your birthday?” he asked.

The older man furrowed his brow, clearly confused by the sudden change in subject. “Uh, September 15th.”

Paul’s heart sunk, brows raising. They’d met on September 7th.

“You never said anything.”

“Barely knew ya,” Daryl shrugged. “Didn’t want to be weird.”  

Paul sighed. He understood how it would have been awkward to bring up, but he felt guilty for not asking earlier than now. Not only was he ashamed that he hadn’t known the birthday of the man he loved, but he felt like a shitty friend.

“Hey,” Daryl continued, clearly noticing the shift in Paul’s mood. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “It’s fine, really. Don’t care.”

 _I care,_ Paul thought.

“Well, I’m buying all your drinks tonight to make up for it.”

“Don’t gotta do that.”

Paul raised his brows. “How many drinks are you going to have? I’ll buy you five—one for each month I missed your birthday.”

“Tryin’ to get me drunk?

“I thought I was the lightweight,” Paul teased with a quirked brow.

The older man narrowed his eyes playfully. Paul chuckled.

“Seriously though, drinks are on me tonight,” Paul said.

Daryl exhaled, leaning back once more. “Fine, but whenever it’s your birthday you ain’t buyin’ anything.”

“It’s not until June. The eighth, to be exact.”

“Okay. June 8th.”

Daryl’s offer was given in good humor, but there was something else there too. A promise.

Their eyes met and Paul felt another flash of warmth heat his cheeks.

 

* * *

 

“Come here, come here, I need a selfie!”

Tara wrapped one arm around Eugene’s shoulders and pulled him close, extending the other to raise her phone. The angle was a bit awkward in the moving crowd, but neither seemed to mind. Tara had always been comfortable in places like these, and Eugene had loosened up from several drinks.

While Black Clover was usually more of a low-key pub, the venue turned the upstairs into a club environment with a dance floor on weekends. After dinner and several drinks, Tara and Rosita had convinced the group to move to the upper level. Much to Paul’s surprise, Eugene seemed to be enjoying his time on the dance floor.

Even after a few beers, Daryl was still just as awkward as he’d been the night before Thanksgiving; the crowded, loud dance music scene really wasn’t his thing. He, Daryl, and Heath were resting against the bar, nursing their respective drinks. Sasha was dancing with some guy, Rosita and Tara with Eugene. Seeing Eugene try to dance was comical, he wouldn’t lie, but he knew he wouldn’t look much better himself. After Tara finished their selfie, Rosita took Eugene’s hands and led him further into the crowd.

The music shifted into a new song and Tara stepped out of the crowd, approaching the three men.

“Guys! Come on, you can’t _not_ dance to Beyonce.”

Paul felt Daryl stiffen next to him.

“We’re okay,” Paul smirked, giving Tara a knowing look.

“Fine, fine,” she pouted. “What about you, Heath?”

“Not much of a dancer.”

She glanced at Paul and Daryl and then back at Heath. “Come on, guys. If Eugene can do it anyone can.”

Heath laughed. “I might need more tequila before I get out there.”

“Not a problem,” Tara beamed. She pushed past Paul and Heath and waved down the bartender. Five minutes later, four shots waited on the bar before them. She picked them up and handed each one to the group.

“Bottoms up, assholes,” she said, raising the glass. She knocked it back quickly, Heath shortly afterward.

Paul looked at Daryl before he brought the drink to his lips. He saw Daryl exhale before following his lead.

They placed the empty shot glasses on the bar once finished. He’d made sure to pace himself tonight with food and alcohol, so he only felt slightly buzzed. He knew the shot would help push him into the tipsy category, but not enough so to have another repeat of Thanksgiving Eve.

Tara laughed at something Heath said, and then grabbed his arm and pulled him into the crowd.

“Let’s go you two!” she called back to Daryl and Paul.

“We don’t have to,” Paul said over the music, looking at Daryl.

Daryl shrugged. “Can’t dance.”

Paul smiled. “Neither can I, I’m horrible. Look,” he said, attempting to move to the deep bass beat of the music.

The older man snorted, lips parting into a full smile as he laughed. Paul had never seen him laugh like that before and his heart swelled with warmth. Daryl's smile was infectious; Paul found himself grinning dumbly alongside with him.

“I thought that was pretty good.”

Daryl smirked, raising his beer from before to his lips. “Nah.”  

“Ass,” Paul teased, knocking his shoulder against Daryl’s playfully. It felt white hot even through his shirt.

Daryl looked over at him and their eyes met. A wave of chills trickled down his spine.

The older man broke the gaze a few moments later, returning his lips to the neck of the beer bottle and knocking his head back, finishing the liquid.

 

* * *

 

An hour later the group left the bar. Tara was too far gone to drive, so Rosita took her home. Sasha drove Eugene, Heath called a taxi.

It was just after two in the morning and it was freezing outside, Paul’s breath visible in the dark night as he and Daryl walked toward the parking lot where they'd left the car. It was only a ten-minute walk, but it felt much longer due to the cold.

As they walked over an overpass bridge, Paul glanced through the chainlink barrier to watch the cars driving toward and away beneath them in hazy streams of white and red. It was quiet save for their soft zooms. The noise was almost soothing.

“You okay?” came Daryl’s voice. Paul realized he’d stopped walking, paused next to the chainlink. The freezing air had helped to sober him up, but he still felt the light warmth of alcohol in his veins.  

Daryl moved toward him. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“No,” Paul said. “I’ve just never seen this view before.”

The older man’s arm almost brushed his own as he stepped closer and followed Paul’s gaze. “The highway?”

Paul exhaled. “It’s kind of mesmerizing, I guess.”

“Or noisy.”

Paul smirked, looking up at Daryl. “I didn’t mean it literally—just, I don’t know. Each car down there is carrying its own person or family, who have their own places to go, their own lives, troubles, happiness. Yet they don’t know we’re up here watching, and we don't know who they are. They’re just passing lights and sounds to us. They might as well exist in an entirely different world.”

Daryl’s eyes were clear and blue as they met Paul’s own. His gaze didn’t falter for several seconds, but then he looked away, digging his hand into his back pocket to retrieve his cigarettes and lighter.

“Maybe you’re still drunk,” he said as he lit up.

Paul bit his lip, huffing out a soft chuckle. “I wish.”

Daryl exhaled, breath and smoke mixing in the night air. “I see what you mean though,” he said quietly,  eyes on the road below.

The younger man returned his gaze to Daryl, eyes drifting over his profile. His ear was red where it poked out from beneath his dark waves. The lights below illuminated the light scruff on his chin and highlighted the outline of his lips.

“You do?”

Daryl takes another drag of his cigarette, smoke sifting from his lips. “Yea, it’s like lookin’ into a snow globe or somethin,” he murmured.

Paul smiled softly at the comparison. It was sweet. _He’s sweet._

“It’s strange to think a few months ago you were telling me to fuck off in the middle of the road,” Paul said then, eyes on the cars beneath them. “Yet here we are.”

He felt Daryl tense next to him. He sensed the man’s gaze and turned his head, looking up. Daryl was staring at him with he same intensity as the other night, as he'd been earlier in the bar.

_Maybe._

Paul’s heart pulsed in his chest. He could reach out right now, tuck Daryl's hair behind his ear. He could pull his face close and place a kiss on his temple, his cheek, his lips. Maybe Daryl would even kiss him back.

"Do you want to go home?” he said softly instead, cars whizzing below him.

Daryl blinked, then looked down at his toes. He tossed the cigarette to the ground and snuffed it out with his boot.

He returned his gaze to Paul briefly. “Yeah, okay.”

 

* * *

 

The apartment was hot when they returned.

Daryl peeled off his jacket, tossing the item onto the bed before walking over and opening the window. Some cool air wafted inside, but it didn’t do much to dissipate the stale heat. He tried to push the pane higher, but it wouldn’t budge.

Paul’s own room was slightly cooler—he’d left his own window open all night. If he didn’t sleep with his main comforter the heat would be bearable.

After changing into a t-shirt and thin sweatpants, he returned to the main apartment space. Daryl was lounging on the far side of the couch near the bookcase and window, still in his flannel and slacks from earlier. The television was on, setting the otherwise dark room in a faint glow, but Paul couldn’t make out the channel given the random infomercial that was on screen. Daryl didn’t seem to be paying much attention anyway, eyes focused downward as his fingers fidgeted together.

Paul felt a pang of worry in his chest at the sight. Something seemed off, different.

“Hey, you okay?” Paul asked.

Daryl blinked up, eyes darting to where Paul stood across from the couch bed. His gaze traveled over his body briefly before breaking away, cheeks flushed a shade darker. “Yea, fine.”

“Okay.”

They stayed unmoving in their spaces, eyes focused on one another.

“I’m gonna go to bed,” Paul said, heart beginning to pump faster.

Daryl didn’t say anything for several moments, but then he nodded.

Paul felt his stomach dip at the response. He didn’t know why he felt disappointed; this was how every night ended. What was Daryl supposed to say? ‘No, stay with me?’ or ‘I’ll come with you’? He wasn't living inside some romance movie—this was real life. Daryl didn't love him the way he loved him.  

Paul sighed and plastered on a fake smile. “Night Daryl.”

He walked back to his room and shut the door, flipping off the lights. He stood in the darkness for several moments and rubbed one hand over his face before padding toward his bed.

Paul doubted he was getting any sleep tonight.

 

Just then, a soft tap sounded at his door. Paul turned his head, brows furrowed, unsure if he’d actually heard the noise or if his exhausted mind had just made it up.

The tapping repeated, this time unmistakably a knock.

Paul walked back to the door and slowly turned the knob, opening the door with a quiet creak. Daryl stood at the other side.

His dark locks were messy, bangs parted haphazardly as if he’d just run his hands through his hair. His shoulders and jaw were taut with nervous tension and his eyes timidly met Paul’s own. The man didn’t say anything. He only stood still, exhaling a shaky breath.

“Daryl?”

The older man’s narrow eyes were locked on Paul’s, tender and gentle unlike he’d ever seen them before.

Paul’s heart thumped wildly in his chest. _Maybe, oh god, maybe…_

Stepping forward, Paul raised one hand and gently brushed aside Daryl’s bangs, running his fingertips down the soft hair to rest on his warm cheek. The man fluttered his eyes closed at the contact, chest now visibly heaving with each nervous breath.

That was it, that was enough.

Paul brought his other hand to the back of Daryl’s neck, pulling him close and then down to press their lips together.

Daryl’s body tensed at the action. For a moment Paul thought he’d made a terrible mistake, that'd he'd read the situation all wrong, fucked up everything just as he'd feared.

Then he felt the man’s hand on his hip, soft and warm through his t-shirt.

Paul pulled his head back slightly, breathing in, and then pressed forward again, head clouded with both shock and lust as he felt the lips he’d fantasized about against his own. They were dry but soft and he could feel Daryl's light scruff bristle against his beard.

He slowly parted his mouth. The taller man didn't respond at first, but after a few seconds he felt a slight pressure in response. Daryl began to move his lips softly against his own, hand tightening Paul's shirt into his fist.

Paul couldn’t help but whine in his throat, body and mind overwhelmed with emotion as he realized that Daryl wanted this, wanted _him_. He tilted his head to change the angle and slid one hand into the hair at the nape of Daryl's neck, deepening the kiss.

Daryl's rhythm was awkward and clumsy, but Paul didn’t care. His lips felt perfect, better than he ever could have ever imagined them. When he pressed his parted lips against Daryl’s the next time, he slipped his tongue inside his mouth. He tasted like tequila and cigarettes.

It was as if a switch flipped in Daryl at the contact: he stepped forward and pulled Paul against him hard, breathing heavy as he slid his own tongue against Paul’s. The kiss turned messy and wet and frantic, Daryl's hands now roving over Paul’s sides and back as the two moved against one another.

Daryl’s excitement went straight to Paul’s dick. He broke his mouth from Daryl’s for air, moaning softly. The older man grunted at the sound and brushed Paul’s long hair behind his shoulder before diving down to kiss his neck.

A surprised whine caught in Paul’s throat and he grasped onto Daryl’s broad shoulders with one arm, tilting his head to the side to allow him better access. Daryl inhaled sharply through his nose, placing scruffy kisses up and down before settling in the crook of Paul's neck. He pressed his wet lips hard against the skin over and over, pace unsteady as both his hands fisted in the back of the smaller man's shirt.

Paul could tell Daryl didn't have much of a plan; he was just feeling and tasting, body leading mind. As much as it turned him on to see Daryl unbound like this, the man's whiskers were starting to tickle against his shoulder and he desperately wanted their lips together again. Paul straightened his neck, signaling Daryl to come up from his bent position.

When their gazes met, both sets of pupils wide and dark, Paul saw a flash of apprehension in Daryl's eyes. His heart panged at the sight—he wanted to remove any self-conscious thoughts Daryl might have that Paul didn't want this—so he leaned up and caught his lips once more, one hand coming up to caress his jaw and neck.

As their tongues slid against each other, Daryl drifted his hands down Paul's back. The shorter man pressed himself closer so that their chests met and Daryl groaned, hands latching onto Paul's hips and fingertips brushing against the thin sliver of bare skin between his t-shirt and sweatpants.

The touch sent waves of electricity over Paul's body and suddenly he needed more, so much more. He pulled his lips from Daryl's, lungs gasping for air, and rested their foreheads together.Paul dropped his hands and placed them over Daryl's wrists. He pulled them slightly upward so that the friction caused the man's large hands to ruck up his own shirt, bare skin of his stomach meeting the cooler air.

Paul dropped his hands and placed them over Daryl's wrists. He pulled them slightly upward so that the friction caused him to ruck up his own shirt, bare skin of his stomach meeting the cooler air.

"Want this off?" Paul whispered, voice husky.

Daryl exhaled a shaky breath in response, pressing his hands up and under his shirt. He leaned down to kiss Paul again.

The older man's hands traced over his back, fingertips hot against his bare skin. Paul pulled back from their kiss and immediately moved to grab at his own shirt, pulling it over his own head. He tossed the item to the floor and dove back in, tangling his hands in Daryl's hair and pulling him close as their lips slid together.

Daryl’s hand moved over Paul’s back, his waist, up over his neck and into his hair, frantically exploring. They parted to catch their breaths and Daryl’s hands settled on Paul’s cheeks, palms caressing his beard and skin while his fingers slid into his hair at the nape of his neck. The older man stared at him with wonder and in that moment he looked much younger than he really was.

Paul felt his heart swell with heat and he dove back in once more, pressing his lips to Daryl’s cheek, to his temple, behind his ear and down his neck. _God, I love you._

His hands traveled up the taller man’s chest, stilling as his fingertips reach the highest button of his flannel. He pulled back and Daryl's his eyes. “Can I?” he murmured.

The biker swallowed visibly as his body tensed. Paul almost dropped his hands and apologized, but then Daryl nodded.

Paul pecked his lips before moving his fingers deftly over each button, the dark flannel parting as he made his way down. Once unbuttoned, Paul pushed the garment over Daryl’s shoulders to drop onto the floor.

His heart caught in his throat as he stared at the man before him. It was dark in the room, but Daryl was close enough that he could make out each part of his body. His chest was wide and peppered with light hair. His abdomen wasn't chiseled or overly toned—a sign of his age—just lightly muscled under soft skin. Paul reached out and drifted his fingertips over Daryl’s waist up to his chest and over his muscled shoulders, eyes not quite believing that it was him doing this, him that was allowed to touch something so beautiful.

Paul could feel the man shivering slightly. Given the temperature in the apartment, there was no way it was because of the cold.

He leaned his head into the crook of Daryl’s neck, resting his forehead there. He snaked his hands around his waist and ran his hands up his back. He felt some patches of skin that were smoother than others, slightly raised and bumpy. He didn’t pay it much mind; all of Daryl felt so gorgeous beneath his hands.

The older man froze momentarily, but as Paul kept drifting his fingertips over his back the tension dissipated and he exhaled, dropping his head forward slightly.

Paul angled his head upward, pressing lips to the hot skin of Daryl’s neck.

Daryl gave another shaky exhale.

Paul drifted his lips down Daryl’s neck down to his shoulder, beard lightly scratching against his skin. He worked his way back the way he came with slack lips, mouthing slow kisses until he returned to his earlier place. Daryl’s hands tightened on Paul’s hips and a soft, breathy moan fell from his lips above him.

The noise sent another sharp wave of pleasure to his dick, and that was it, he needed more. He raked his hands upward and tangled them into Daryl’s hair as he worshiped his neck with his mouth, pressing their chests together. The man smelled of sweat, alcohol, and cigarettes, but nothing in his life had ever seemed so sexy.

Daryl growled as he ran his hands up Paul’s back, pulling them even closer. Paul felt the man tip his head to the side, giving him more space to kiss up his neck.

Dizzy with lust, Paul came up for air after several minutes. He realized he’d been leading them further into the room, and now the bed was less than a foot away. Their eyes aligned and Paul walked them backward until he felt the bed against his thighs. He reached his hands around Daryl’s neck and dragged him down, their lips sliding against each other. Paul leaned backward until he fell back onto the bed, Daryl toppling down with him.

He scooted further into onto the bed to accommodate the both of them and then tugged Daryl back down, hungrily pressing their lips together. Daryl's hot skin slid against Paul as his strong arms kept him hoisted above the smaller man.

Only a minute or two passed before Paul bucked his hips upward, grinding against Daryl. He could feel how hard Daryl was through his own sweatpants and his jeans, and it sends another surge to his own cock. Breathing hard, he clasped his hands to Daryl’s hips and laced his fingers through his jeans’ belt loops. He pulled down on them, drawing his hips downward until there was no space between them.

Daryl’s head dropped to Paul’s shoulder with a cry, and it was the hottest thing he’d ever experienced. He moaned before grinding upward again, rubbing their hard lengths together.

He repeated the action, once, twice, and then Daryl bit down on his shoulder, growling low in his throat. Paul arched his back, adding to the friction. “Daryl…shit, Daryl,” tumbled breathily from Paul’s mouth.

Daryl exhaled into Paul’s neck before lifting his head up to face the man below him.

“What do you want,” Paul panted, completely out of breath. He ran his hands up Daryl’s strong arms framed around his body. “I’ll do anything you want, just tell me.” He knew he sounded needy, but he didn’t give a shit.

The man’s dark bangs hung over his face and Paul reached up and brushed them to the side so their eyes could meet. Daryl blinked away, cheeks flushing into a deeper shade of red than they already were. “I…I don’t know. I ain’t ever done this.”

Paul wouldn’t say he was surprised, but the admission touched him nonetheless, a wave of warm affection spreading from his chest down to his gut. He drifted his hand through Daryl’s hair once more before pushing upward onto his elbow and kissing him chastely.

“That’s okay,” he murmured.

He kissed Daryl again before pulling back and nestling his face in the man’s neck. He turned his head and breathed hotly into his ear.

“I need you inside me,” he whispered. “Is that something you’d want?”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Daryl choked, head dropping to Paul’s shoulder again.

That was enough for Paul—he pushed lightly at the man’s shoulders and rolled him until he was lying down on his back, head resting on the pillow. He made quick work of his jeans, hastily unzipping the fly and tapping Daryl’s hips to lift upward before he pushed them down the man’s thighs. Once gone, he removed Daryl's underwear.

Then the older man was completely naked on his bed.

His cock was thick and red against his abdomen. It wasn't much longer than his own, but the girth was certainly wider.

Paul dove down and peppered kisses along the man’s chest, licking over his taut nipples. He didn’t spend too much time because he wanted him, _now_ , so he slid off the bed and pushed off his sweatpants before jerking open his beside table drawer and fumbling blindly in the dark for a condom and lube. He vaguely recognized that he was shaking, but pushed it from his mind once his fingertips came in contact with the smooth, crinkly condom packet and a small bottle of lube.

When he looked up, Daryl was staring at him. His eyes were dark with lust and his lips were parted, expression once of wonder, like he couldn’t believe what he was looking at was really there. A sharp wave of warmth spread from his heart throughout his body and Paul pushed up onto the bed, taking a seated position above Daryl and dropping the items on the comforter next to them.

The man lifted his hands to rest at Paul’s hips. The smaller man leaned down and kissed him. They stayed like that for several minutes, the only sound in the room the soft, wet clicks of their lips pushing and parting against each other. When Paul settled on top of Daryl’s erection, pressing down, the man grunted and jerked upward, hands grasping at the smaller man’s ass.

Paul reached for the condom and lube quickly and tore the small packet with his teeth. He rolled the latex over Daryl’s thick erection, stirring a whine from the man’s lips, and then slicked his length with lube. Slowly, he lowered himself onto Daryl, pushing past the initial pain until he was fully seated and the man was sheathed inside him.

“Oh, _Paul,_ ” Daryl breathed, eyes pressed shut and hands softly placed on the younger man’s thighs.

Once he felt fully adjusted, Paul began his movements, slowly rolling his hips with Daryl inside him. The man began to moan and whine, hands now grabbing at Paul's hips, his ass, his chest—anywhere, everywhere.

He didn’t think it was possible to get any harder, but the way Daryl’s responsiveness affected him proved him wrong. Little breathy moans toppled from his own lips as he felt the man’s hard length slide in and out of him, sending warm shocks of pleasure up his spine and through his dick. He wrapped his own hand around himself and tugged in tandem with his rhythm.

Daryl settled his hands on Paul’s hips, now slightly thrusting his own upward to meet each of Paul’s movements. The feeling of the man pushing into him sent Paul's mind into overload and he increased his speed, bouncing up and down with added fervor.

The older man moaned, breathing heavy. Paul could feel the man’s legs twitching beneath him.

Paul bent down and attacked Daryl’s neck, sucking and kissing and licking as his own rhythm became erratic. Daryl felt so fucking good, better than all his fantasies, and it wasn’t long before he was moaning nonsensical combinations of words and expletives in the man’s ear.

“ _Fuck,_ Daryl, oh god— _please_ , oh god, Daryl.”

Moans spilled from Daryl's lips and then he choked out one last whine before his hips thrusted upward, pulsing inside the smaller man. Paul quickly fumbled his hand to his dick, jerking himself fervently until his own orgasm washed over him, hard and hotter than any he’d had before.

When they finished, Paul removed himself from Daryl and leaned downward, kissing the man he loved. Their lips slid softly against one another until Paul settled his face in the crook of Daryl’s neck and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated. :)


	16. Chapter 16

Paul woke with warmth against his forehead.

He inhaled as he blinked his eyes open, breathing in the smell of dried sweat, cigarettes, and… _Daryl._ Eyes adjusting into focus, he realized he was peering down Daryl’s torso, his head resting softly against his breastbone. The larger man’s arm was draped around him, warm and strong against his bare skin. Above him he could hear the soft whirs escaping from Daryl’s nose with each sleeping breath, and this close he could feel the man’s heart pump rhythmically in his chest.

A radiating heat emanated from his own chest and washed over his body in tingling waves as he processed his current situation. Memories from last night flashed through his mind and his heart surged with warmth once more, a lightheaded excitement causing his lips to quirk into a small smile.

_This really happened._

Shifting, Paul pulled back to look at Daryl’s chest where his forehead had laid. Light, sparse hair dusted over his skin. He felt a sudden urge to reach his hand up and brush through it with his fingertips, but he didn’t want to wake him. Instead, Paul pressed forward and placed a light kiss over his heart, lips gently brushing over his skin.

Paul cuddled closer into the older man and blinked his eyes shut. Surrounded by Daryl’s scent and warmth, he drifted back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

When he woke again, Paul was facing the window. Streaks of sunlight beamed through the slats of the shades and he squinted to stop the stinging in his eyes. Exhaling, he nuzzled his face into the mattress to block some of the brightness impeding his vision. Then he was suddenly aware of the warm skin against his back, the arm around his waist, the light breath ghosting through his hair and onto his neck.

Paul didn’t remember turning around in his sleep, but he must have given their current position. He wondered if Daryl had woken and consciously decided to cuddle up against him, or if it was all unconscious as he slept. He decided he liked either answer.

After several minutes, Paul felt Daryl inhale against him, his arm shifting around his waist. Only a few seconds passed before the man’s body froze.

He was awake.

Paul’s mind kicked into overdrive and his heart began pumping in his chest. Would Daryl be surprised to find himself wrapped around Paul, or was he already aware? He assumed the man must feel some level of nervousness after what happened. Should he turn around? Say something? Or should he wait for Daryl to feel comfortable and make the first move to show he was awake?

While his gut told him Daryl wouldn’t have a big freakout, he knew all of this must be a lot for him to process. Sleeping with someone for the first time was overwhelming as it was, throw in your first gay experience too—well…Paul knew it wasn’t always easy for people to come to terms with that so quickly.

A sudden nervousness bubbled in his stomach. What if Daryl was freaking out right now? What if this was too much? What if…what if he regretted last night? What if all that was just a response to some curiosity-fueled lust, and now that he’d been satisfied he realized he didn’t want to be with Paul in that way? Even if he’d physically enjoyed last night, what if he wasn’t ready for something more?

 _No,_ sounded a voice in Paul’s head.

Daryl had come to him last night. Daryl had been the one to knock on his door. He made the first move. Paul remembered how nervous he had seemed—the man wouldn't have braved rejection and risked everything they’d built together as friends just out of curiosity. He knew last night meant something more than just sex.

_Right?_

Pushing past his doubts, Paul took another breath and rolled over to change his position. The man tensed again, arm going stiff and heart rushing into a fast pace. When Paul faced Daryl, the taller man was staring at him, blue eyes locked on his own. His hair was messy, strands poking out in all directions, and his cheeks were rosy with either heat or embarrassment ( _probably both,_ Paul thought). Slowly, Paul raised his hand and brushed through Daryl’s hair with his fingers as he did last night, pushing it back away from his forehead softly.

Daryl blinked and inhaled. Paul brushed through his hair once more before drifting his hand down Daryl’s cheek to rest behind his neck.

“Hi,” Paul whispered.

The older man stared at him, narrow eyes wider than usual. Paul noticed Daryl’s jaw shift as he began chewing on the inside of his bottom lip.

Paul sifted his fingers into the hair at the nape of Daryl’s neck. The older brunette closed his eyes at the contact, chest rising as he took a deep breath.

Leaning upward, Paul pressed a chaste kiss to the other man’s lips.

Daryl responded immediately, the hand that was idly draped over Paul’s waist running up his back. When he pulled back, Daryl pressed back in shyly, warm lips plush against his own.

Sighing in his throat, Paul parted his mouth and deepened the kiss. Their lips slowly moved in tandem, little, soft clicks echoing in the otherwise silent bedroom. Daryl’s hand slid further back up Paul’s back until it tangled into his long hair.

Another surge of giddy warmth spread from Paul’s heart. _He still wants this. This is still happening._

Before things escalated, Paul pulled back for air and slowly pulled back his hand from Daryl’s neck. Daryl’s eyes slowly blinked open.

They stared at each other for several moments, neither saying a word. Daryl broke the gaze first, nervously dropping his eyes. Paul raised his hand again, this time placing it on Daryl’s chest to brush softly over the hair there as he’d imagined earlier that morning.

“Hi,” Paul repeated.

Daryl’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “Hi,” he croaked before he cleared his throat, voice raspy from sleep.

Paul’s lips quirked into a smile. He tried to contain it—to reveal how giddy he felt right now was embarrassing, goddamnit—but he failed, lips parting into a grin as he felt his cheeks heat. This time it was his turn to drop his eyes.

He felt Daryl’s hand glide from his hair to his cheek and he looked back up, meeting Daryl’s soft gaze. The man pushed a few stray strands behind his ear, sending more warmth to Paul’s chest.

 _I love you,_ he thought.

Paul wanted to say it—he wanted Daryl to know how much last night had meant, how much he meant to him.

But he was also terrified to say it. Alex’s words still were alive in his mind just as the day he’d uttered them. Those words had cut deeply because he knew the man was right—no one would ever love him because he wouldn't let them. There was something wrong with him, a part of himself that could never truly feel happy with anyone no matter hard he tried. And even if someone fell in love with him, as Alex had, they were never really falling in love with Paul. How could they when he wouldn’t let them in? They only loved the person he allowed them to see, the surface of his personality. It was just a shell, as superficial as his Jesus moniker.

Yet, in the back of his mind he’d always hoped that he wasn’t actually broken, that he’d just never found the right person.

Daryl was that person, he realized.

That’s why he was so scared to tell him. It was as if speaking the depth of his feelings into existence would flip some switch in the universe, karma taking charge for what had happened with Alex. Paul hadn’t loved Alex despite the man’s affection, and he’d hurt him deeply by ending things. Now that he actually loved someone, now that he finally felt like himself with another human being for the first time in his life, he was terrified Daryl would change his mind, that the spell cast over him would wear off and he’d come to his senses. All of this was too good to be true. There had to be some catch, right?

Being here with Daryl after last night was more than he could have ever hoped for, and it was more than enough for now. Maybe he’d tell him one day…but he’d take this one step at a time.

Paul leaned down to Daryl’s chest and placed another kiss over his heart as he had before, willing his doubts from his head. He wanted to remember everyone moment of this.

When he looked back up, Daryl’s gaze had shifted into something deeper, a look so fond and vulnerable it made his heart ache.

If he couldn’t tell him he loved him just yet, maybe he could show him.

Slowly, Paul leaned up once again and captured Daryl’s lips.

He kissed Daryl slowly, his hand drifting up his chest. Then he pulled back and pressed a kiss against the man’s cheek, his temple, beneath his ear, down his neck. He focused his attentions there, surges of arousal pulsing through his body with each soft noise that escaped the other man’s lips.

Gently, he pushed Daryl backward with the hand on his chest so that he was lying fully on his back. Paul shifted his weight and elevated himself onto one perched elbow. He leaned down and began pressing kisses over Daryl’s chest. When he felt the man’s heart thumping beneath his lips, he paused, letting his gentle kiss sink into the man’s skin.

Daryl reentered his hand into Paul’s hair.

It escalated from there.

Paul dove upwards to link their lips back together. Slow, lazy kisses grew into something much deeper, much more frantic. Daryl’s hands were tangled in his hair and Paul’s hand roamed over the man’s strong chest and abdomen.

As their tongues met, Paul slid his hand beneath the comforter. He could feel the warmth emanating from Daryl’s groin, and wasn’t surprised to find him hard when his fingertips finally came in contact with hot, silky skin.

Daryl’s breath caught in their kiss, clearly not expecting the touch. He must have been so lost in their kiss he hadn’t realized where Paul’s hand had been traveling. A surge of arousal passed over Paul’s body and took hold of Daryl’s dick, gently stroking.

A whine escaped from the older man’s throat. Paul responded with a groan of his own, increasing his speed. He pulled his lips to gasp for air and leaned his forehead against Daryl’s. The man’s eyes were squeezed closed, lips parted in pleasure.

He’d never seen anything so gorgeous.

He placed a quick kiss on Daryl’s forehead before removing his hand and slinking down Daryl’s body, pushing his own torso beneath the sheets. The older man blinked open his eyes in confusion, propping up onto his elbows.

“Wha—”

Whatever he was going to say was lost when Paul slid Daryl into his mouth.

The man’s elbows gave way and he collapsed onto his back, head flopping onto the pillow with a soft swoosh.

Paul popped off and kissed up the side of Daryl’s dick. He pressed his wet lips against the soft skin of the head.

“ _Shit,_ ” Daryl whined.

When Paul released his tongue and licked over the tip, Daryl moaned so loudly it was nearly a cry.

Daryl’s excitement and ecstasy already had Paul hard against the mattress. He rolled his hips every so often to alleviate some pressure, but he wasn’t concerned with himself right now. He’d always loved giving head—he knew he was pretty damn good at it. But it was nothing compared to doing it to Daryl. Every cry, gasp, and moan the man made as Paul bobbed over his dick was more pleasurable than being touched himself. Just seeing Daryl so undone, so turned on was enough for him. Hell, he didn’t even need to come.

It’d been a while, so he wasn’t sure if he could at first, but after several minutes of sucking and stroking in tandem, he released his hand and opened his throat, sinking lower and lower until his nose met the skin between Daryl’s curly hair and belly button.

“ _Paul,_ fuck,” tumbled from Daryl’s lips. Paul opened his eyes and looked up. Daryl was peering down at him from the pillow, pupils blown with lust. His lips parted and slightly trembling. He looked completely mind-blown, blissed out beyond all belief.

Paul would have smirked if he wasn’t so focused. Instead, he kept his gaze intense, eyes big and round. He slid up, their eyes locked, and came off. He kept his wet lips against Daryl’s head, pressing soft kisses against the silken skin.  
One of Daryl’s hands came up to brush some of Paul’s long hair from his face, gently pushing it over his shoulder. After blinking slowly, Paul sunk back down and took him into his throat in one motion.

Daryl cried in surprise, hand now fisted in his hair.

Paul repeated the action several times until he began feeling Daryl’s knees jerk, his thighs twitch with his impending orgasm.

He popped off and gasped for air, returning his hand to Daryl’s dick. He stroked at a steady, tortuous pace.

“Want you,” Paul murmured, lips ghosting over the tip.

Daryl whined, face contorting in pleasure.

He increased his speed once again, placing an open-mouth kiss over his head.

That was it, Daryl was gasping out as he came, spurts of come coating Paul’s lips. Paul licked them clean quickly and then wrapped them around the head, letting Daryl finish in his mouth and on his tongue.

Paul kept stroking Daryl until he was sure nothing was left. He swallowed and then pulled off, licking his lips once more.

Daryl looked like he’d just ran ten miles and collapsed onto the bed, breathing heavy open-mouthed. Paul kissed up his tummy and chest until he returned to his original position. Daryl’s hazy gaze met the younger man’s eyes and he reached up, gently running his fingers through the ends of Paul’s hair.

Paul smiled gently. “Hi.”

The older man’s face was red from his orgasm, but even through the heat Paul could tell he was blushing.

“You’re perfect,” Paul whispered. He hadn’t really meant to say that out loud, but he didn’t really give a fuck if he was being honest.

As their eyes gazed into one another, Paul’s phone suddenly buzzed to life on his bedside table. Daryl broke away first, turning his head toward the sound.

“Forget it, it’s probably just Tara,” Paul mumbled, reclining from his propped up elbow onto his side.

Daryl leaned up, peering at the phone. “Says _‘Work Alarm - Get Up Now._ ’”

Paul groaned. He hadn’t thought it was that late already.

“Shit,” Paul cursed. He didn’t want to leave. Not now, not ever. But the bills weren’t going to pay themselves. “Fuck that.”

The older man pushed himself up and reached over to silence the alarm. Paul followed, moving into a sitting position.

Several moments of awkward silence passed between them. Paul knew they needed to talk about what had happened last night—what had just happened. But he’d rather not squish that into the next ten or fifteen minutes.

He reached out to Daryl’s face, turning him gently toward him. He leaned in and kissed him softly. When he pulled back he rested his forehead against Daryl’s temple for several moments.

“I really don’t want to leave right now,” he whispered.

A shaky breath left Daryl’s chest. “Don’t have to.”

Paul pulled back, meeting Daryl’s eyes. They were wide, serious. His heart leaped in his chest.

Gregory probably won’t show up tonight, so if he didn’t either Kal would probably have a fit. Not that he was Kal’s biggest fan, but the guy did keep his word on covering his shift yesterday. And yesterday was arguably the best day of his life, so, maybe he owed him one.

“I wish I didn’t.”

Daryl nodded. “Should uh, get to the shop too. Work on some stuff,” he said, eyes not quite meeting Paul’s.

He hated seeing Daryl feel insecure, and he didn’t want the man to doubt his feelings.

“Hey,” Paul said, reaching up to brush a few strands of hair away from Daryl’s face. The man’s eyes returned to him, unsure. “I’ll be back tonight around seven. Can we um…can we talk then?”

Daryl nodded again, another deep breath leaving his chest. “Kay.”

Paul smiled softly before leaning in for another kiss.

 

* * *

 

The bar was quiet that night.

It was snowing heavily, which caused most to stay home. Sundays were never the biggest party nights anyway. Most customers were regulars, questionable townies, and football fans. Groups sifted in and out of the bar in slow waves all night. Gregory hadn’t shown up yet again and two people were out sick, leaving clean up and service to just Paul and Kal. Thankfully the lack of customers didn’t make that too difficult.

Closing hadn’t taken that long—Paul focused on cleaning down the bar and tables while Kal did the dish-ware. He’d convinced Kal to mop up the floors since rubbing down all the tables was a far more laborious task than doing shot glasses and cups, leaving him with a few minutes of downtime before they locked up.

Paul walked over to the back room to pick up his coat. He’d left his phone in his pocket by accident—well accident was a lie…he’d been checking it every ten minutes to see if Daryl had sent him anything that he forced himself to leave it in there two hours into his shift.

He unlocked the phone to a few unread texts. His heart nearly burst out of his chest and he almost tripped over Kal’s backpack on the floor when he realized the first was from Daryl.

> **Daryl 3:21 PM**  
>  Hey. Hope work is okay. I was wondering if you wanted to go out to dinner tonight with me when you get home.

The stupidest smile broke on Paul’s face. It wasn’t like they hadn’t had dinner together before, but this…this felt like a date. He’d never heard nor seen Daryl talk so formally and it was pretty fucking adorable.  

> **Paul 6:22 PM**  
>  Sorry, just got off work. Yeah, I’d really like that.  
>  **Paul 6:22 PM**  
>  :)

As he waited for a response with baited breath, he checked his texts from Tara.

> **Tara 3:46 PM**  
>  You make it home in one piece last night?  
>  **Tara 4:04 PM**  
>  Hope you’re feeling better than I do lol
> 
> **Paul 6:22 PM**  
>  I’m feeling good. You okay?

Tara responded a minute later.

> **Tara 6:23 PM**  
>  I know you hate this but does “good” have anything to do with Daryl, because I’m sorry you guys were eye fucking all last night  
>  **Tara 6:23 PM**  
>  I’m hungover as fuck man

Paul toyed with his options in his mind. He could brush it off as usual. Or he actually come clean for once...

> **Paul 6:24 PM**  
>  Maybe. Yes.

No response. Then the little dots, then nothing, then more dots. 

> **Tara 6:25 PM**  
>  …….Wait. Don’t fuck with me Jesus
> 
> **Paul 6:25 PM**  
>  I’m not
> 
> **Tara 6:25 PM**  
>  Explain. Now.

Paul ran a hand through his hair and then tapped his response. 

> **Paul 6:26 PM**  
>  We slept together for the first time last night

He closed his eyes, heart thumping widely. He couldn’t actually believe this was real and telling Tara only made it feel even more unbelievable. Maybe he’d wake up and all of this would be some amazing dream.

> **Tara 6:26 PM**  
>  What  
>  **Tara 6:26 PM**  
>  IS this real….  
>  **Tara 6:26 PM**  
>  ARE YOU FUCKING KIDIDNG ME AHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#%!@!!@  
>  **Tara 6:26 PM**  
>  I knew it I fucking knew it  
>  **Tara 6:26 PM**  
>  This better not be a joke or I’ll fukcing karate chop your ass you piece of shit
> 
> **Paul 6:27 PM**  
>  It’s not. :) I’ll call you tomorrow?
> 
> **Tara 6:27 PM**  
>  Fine FINE I’ll wait one more day. Only because I know you’ll be fucking all night tonight and I'm kind enough not to interrupt

Paul smiled. He pocketed his cell before moving to pull his coat on. He wanted to get home as soon as possible. He wanted to see what Daryl had in mind for dinner…and they needed to talk. About last night...this morning. About them. 

Not paying attention as he moved, he knocked into Kal’s backpack again, sending it toppling over on its side, half of its contents falling out onto the floor.

“Fuck,” Paul cursed. _Why does he always leave his shit everywhere?_

He bent down, collecting the dispersed items—sunglasses, gloves, a water bottle, a condom packet ( _really Kal?_ he thought), his keys, a lighter…a manila envelope.

Suddenly, memories flashed through his head, Gregory in the alleyway, the mustached man….

A metallic _click_ sounded from behind Paul, making him jump and a sense of dread seep into his stomach. He turned around.

Kal was standing in the doorway, one arm extended, gun in hand.

“I fucking didn’t want to do this man.”

Then everything was black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated as always. :)


	17. Chapter 17

Shoes scuffing against the floor.

Muffled voices, indistinct but tense.

Searing pain at the top of his bicep. A pulsing, throbbing ache in his head.

Paul was conscious enough to sense them all, but he couldn’t quite piece everything together.

As the fog of confusion unclouded from his mind, he became aware he was resting against something hard and cold. Shifting slightly, he felt the rough prickle of brick through his flannel shirt.

Why was he up against a cold brick wall? Where the hell was he?

The indistinct yet harsh voices near him wafted closer, swirling and ebbing into his consciousness. Slowly the vague sounds took form in his mind and he was able to make out what was being said.

 _“What are we going to do?”_ came the first voice.

He heard footsteps pacing. _“Will you shut up? I should have never trusted you with this,”_ voiced the second, tone frenzied and hoarse.

Breathing in, Paul pushed open his eyes. His vision was starry and blurred. Another shot of pain surged through his arm and he cringed, eyes squeezing shut on instinct.

 _“Fuck,”_ the second voice cursed under its breath.

 _“I didn’t know what to do, I panicked okay? He saw the envelope and—and well you_ said _make sure no one sees it—”_

 _“So you thought shooting him was a good idea? Are you fucking out of your mind?”_ the second person growled, low and deep and furious.

Paul knew those voices.

Pushing past the pain in his arm and the throbbing in his head, he attempted to blink open his eyes once more.

_“I didn’t mean—”_

_“I don’t care what you meant. Simon is supposed to be here tonight. Tonight! I said get him out after closing, hang around the back, hand Simon the envelope. That’s it. Not fucking shoot him!”_

Memories flashed before Paul’s eyes.

Leaning over Kal’s backpack.

The envelope in his hands.

Kal with a gun.

Searing pain in his shoulder. Stumbling, falling, everything going black.

He blinked again, trying his hardest to focus his eyes.

_“Shit, wait—”_

_“I told you to shut up, now you have to get him out of here before—”_

_“No, look. I think—I think he might be awake.”_

Paul blinked again and arched his head upwards. Several feet away were two pairs of legs—one jean-clad, one in slacks. They seemed horizontal, not angled correctly. That’s when he realized his head was lolled to the side, resting on his shoulder. With another blink he cleared his hazy mind and straightened, viewing the world right-side-up.

“Shit, he’s definitely awake. What do we do?”

_Kal. That’s Kal’s voice._

He felt lightheaded and almost considered returning his head to its previous position. Once again his shoulder buzzed with pain, this time a swirl of nausea building in his stomach along with it.

The slacked pair of legs moved, cap-toe shoes clicking over the concrete floor as they approached. Before he realized what was happening, the legs were before him, bending so the owner could squat down before him.

_Gregory._

Paul blinked again, eyes adjusting to the face of his boss. He wanted to reach out, punch him square in the jaw, but he couldn’t figure out how to move his arms.

“Maybe I should call the cops man, say it was an accident. He lost some blood—”

Gregory snapped his head back, neck red with anger. “You will do no such thing. Are you insane? _Sit down_ , will you?”

After a large breath, Gregory turned back to Paul. “You alive in there?”

Paul opened his mouth and husked out, “Fuck you.”

Gregory narrowed his eyes, firm lips twisting in offense. He raised one hand and pointed a finger near Paul’s chest. “No no, I told you Jesus, I _told_ you stay out of this, to stop snooping and mind your own goddamn business. Now look what you’ve done.”

Paul frowned. His head was swirling with confusion and pain— he’d just waken up from some mangled stupor and Gregory had the audacity to blame all of this on him?

“Where am I,” Paul enunciated slowly, keeping his anger in check.

“We’re in the bar’s basement,” Kal explained from where he’d taken a seat in the opposite corner. “Jesus, man, I didn’t—”

 _“Shut. Up.”_ Gregory seethed.

Paul moved his eyes to meet Kal’s face.

He’d pulled the trigger. Paul had attempted to duck quickly, remembering all his evasion techniques he'd learned in his classes, but had felt a sudden burst of fire slice through his upper bicep near his shoulder. He’d tried to clammer at the wound with his hands but stumbled in pain, knocking into the backroom table. Next thing he knew his head was crashing into the floor. The fall must have knocked him out.

The first emotion Paul felt was shame. He was ashamed he let something like this happen, that he’d been stupid enough to let his guard down, that he wasn’t strong enough or quick enough to fight back or escape.

The second emotion was rage.

“Jesus,” Gregory began, voice painted with faux-concern, “Do you remember what happened?”

“Of course I remember, you fucking—”

“No no, wrong answer,” his boss cut in, pointed finger now pressed firmly against his chest. “You don’t remember anything. You saw nothing, understood?”

“I know what I saw,” Paul managed, voice weak. “What the hell is going on?”

“Nothing is ‘going on.’ Kal was confused, he thought you were a burglar. He accidentally shot you. You’re not going to press charges.”

“What the fuck—”

Gregory quirked his head to the side. “ _Nuh uh uh,_ listen before you speak. You’re not pressing charges. Your coworker was spooked and it was an accident. He’ll drive you to the hospital, get you patched up, and you’ll be just fine. Then you’ll leave this goddamn town and never set foot in this bar again.”

Paul squared his jaw, ignoring the pulsing pain in his shoulder and head. His mind was running with so much emotion it almost dulled his physical discomfort.

“I heard you. He shot me, it’s those envelopes,” Paul rambled, mind still jumbled in fog. “Tell me what the fuck is going on, I’m calling the cops—”

“Oh?” Gregory asked sarcastically. “Why would you do that? Seems to me like you’re pretty confused right now, with being shot in the shoulder and passing out unconscious and all that.” The man then reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out an iPhone.

His iPhone.

“Sorry, I took it— it was only for safe keeping of course. You’ll get it back once you agree that all of this was an accident. A big misunderstanding,” he said with a dramatic wave of his hand.

Paul exhaled through his nose. “Fine. It was an accident.”

“Well, I can’t just believe that can I? How do I know you won’t just call the cops first thing after I return it to you, or after Kal leaves you at the hospital?”

“You don’t, but that’s not my problem is it,” Paul spat.

Gregory exhaled a controlled breath before leaning into Paul’s space. “Listen, you have no idea what you’ve walked into. I tried to warn you,” he whispered harshly. “You can either pretend this never happened and get the hell out of here, or I can hand you over to a friend of mine when he arrives. And trust me, you don’t want that. I’m sure uh,” Gregory leaned down to squint at the phone in his hand, “I’m sure David—err, Daryl wouldn’t want that either.”

Paul tensed, his entire body going rigid. “Stop,” he breathed.

He had no idea how long he’d been out, but he knew it was sometime after the point when Daryl had expected him to arrive home. Maybe he was worried, or maybe he just was responding to Paul’s previous text. He must have texted Paul since he last responded or Gregory wouldn’t be able to see the notification on his phone.

_Maybe he’ll know something’s wrong. Maybe he’ll come, call the cops—anything._

“This Daryl character has been texting you quite a bit,” Gregory continued despite Paul’s request. “I’m assuming he’s worried about you. Now, if he comes here looking for you, my friend will probably end up taking care of you both. Or you could just leave now with Kal and explain to everyone that this was an accident.”

For a moment Paul considered going along with Gregory’s plan. Daryl’s life wasn’t worth risking for whatever illegal bullshit his boss had gotten himself into. Yet, Paul couldn’t believe that he was actually trapped in this situation right now—it was something straight out of a shitty gangster movie. He couldn’t accept that his only way out of this was to lie and leave his home and friends forever. He remembered how terrified Gregory had looked around the mustached-man: if that was the ‘friend’ he was referring to, he was bluffing. That man wasn’t on his side.

_The cops will come eventually, they must have heard a gunshot, all of this will be sorted. Daryl will be safe. This whole thing is ridiculous, hell, maybe I’m dreaming it up—_

Then his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of knocking upstairs.

This was no dream.

Kal jumped in his seat, eyes going wide. “Oh shit.”

Gregory spun around, standing up from his squatted position. He cocked his head toward Kal. “I thought he said he told you nine last time.”

“I thought so?”

“Well you were wrong. Fuck!” Gregory cursed. He bit down on his lip, eyes flicking back and forth as his mind devised a plan.

After several seconds, he walked over to Kal. “Get up,” he directed, voice harsh but quiet under his breath. “Keep him quiet. I mean I don’t want to hear so much as a breath—you understand?”

“Yes,” Kal nodded.

Gregory turned back around, eyes landing on Paul’s. “You,” he pointed. “You keep your mouth shut. Or you’ll wish Kal had shot you in the head.”

Paul flared his nostrils and pursed his lips, saying nothing.

Then he was gone.

 

* * *

 

Kal turned his back to Paul as he watched Gregory walk up the steps from the cellar into the main level of the bar.

Paul had only been down here once or twice himself—they only kept boxes of new alcohol in the basement before moving it up into the refrigerator, and Kal did all the heavy lifting. The space was unfinished and cold, so it wasn’t exactly the location where anyone would spend an extended period of time.

His eyes darted around the room, searching for anything that could help. Boxes were piled against the right wall. There was a chair in the opposite corner where Kal had been sitting. The rest was just brick after brick and cement floor—there wasn’t as much as a vent or drain.

Then Kal turned around, a strange look on his face as he stepped toward Paul.

“I could scream right now,” Paul whispered.

His coworker blanched. _“Shut up,”_ he shushed. “You’ll make this worse for both of us.”

“You _shot_ me.”

Footsteps sounded from the ceiling above them. Paul could hear voices.

 _“Shhh,”_ Kal hissed angrily. “You have no idea what—just keep quiet. Trust me.”

Paul choked out an emotionless laugh. “Trust you? I’ll never fucking trust you as long as you live, you piece of shit.”

Kal reached behind him and pulled out his gun once more. His arms were shaking as he pointed it in Paul’s direction. “Just shut up.”

Paul swallowed, heart racing. He glanced down to his shoulder where he’d been hit. The entire side of his shirt was drenched in blood, but he didn't see any on the floor. He wondered how much was in the backroom upstairs.

He didn’t think he could dodge another bullet.

“Shooting that will only make more noise,” Paul said calmly, returning his sights to Kal. “I’m actually surprised no one heard the first one. Maybe the cops are already on their way…”

“They’re not,” Kal whispered. “No one’s coming, so just _be quiet_.”

“Okay, okay,” Paul murmured. He weakly raised both hands in acquiescence, ignoring the steep pain in his upper left arm. “Just lower the gun.”

Kal breathed through his noise, eyeing Paul suspiciously. His hands wavered but he didn’t drop the weapon.

“Listen, Kal—I get it,” Paul began, eyes wide. “Maybe you needed the money, I understand that. But I know you. You didn’t want to get mixed up in this. Whatever Gregory has gotten you into, I know it wasn’t your plan. You did what you had to do, but it doesn’t define who you are.”

Kal’s lips twitched.

“Please Kal, this isn’t you. Just drop the gun.”

His coworker squeezed his eyes shut.

“Kal, please.”

With one final exhale, Kal lowered the weapon, letting it topple to the floor. It slid to the side behind one of the large boxes.

Then Paul screamed.

 

* * *

 

 

Footsteps scrambled closer. The cellar door swung open with a _squeak_ and _whack._

“Wait, what are you doing,” came Gregory’s frantic voice, “that could have come from anywhere.”

More footsteps hastily bounded down the stairs. Then the mustached man—Simon, Paul remembered—was before him in the cellar.

Simon took one look at Kal, whose face was white as snow with terror, and then stared down to Paul on the floor. He raised a thick brow and then turned around to Gregory, who was standing on the last step of the staircase.

“What the hell is this?”

Gregory put on the fakest smile Paul had ever seen. He looked terrified.

“All just a misunderstanding. You see, Kal here—you remember Kal right? —he thought he heard a burglar and, and well it turns out it was just our bartender grabbing some boxes down here—it was so dark he couldn’t see and—”

“Don’t bullshit me, Gregory,” Simon said. His voice was calm and easy, but Paul sensed something much darker and cruel behind the man’s mask.

“Oh, I wouldn’t—you think I’d lie to you? I gave you the money. This,” Gregory waved in Paul’s direction, “this is all a misunderstanding. We have it handled.”

“Looks like to me you don’t have it handled. At all.”

Gregory laughed nervously. “What? Kal here just has a trigger finger. You know, he scares easily. Just an unfortunate mistake.”

Kal’s lips tightened. Paul could tell he wanted to protest, but that he knew it wasn’t in his best interest.

Simon shifted, placing his hands over his hips. “You call an ambulance for him?” he asked, jerking his head in gesture toward Paul.

“Wh—well no, of course not. We know a guy—it’s handled don’t worry about it. Now if you’ll just follow me back upstairs—”

“You’re not going to call an ambulance?” Simon said, voice laced with dramatic sarcasm. “Cause to me this seems like an ambulance type situation. Your employee here is bleeding out on the floor. I heard him scream.”

Gregory snorted, turning to walk up the stairs. “Oh, that? He does that, a bit dramatic that one. It’s just a nick honestly, he’ll be fine—”

Simon walked closer, calm demeanor turned devious. He snatched Gregory’s arm and pulled him around, causing the other man to stumble down from the stairs to stand on the concrete floor.

“You think I’m stupid?” Simon questioned.

His boss’ eyes flicked to Kal and then back at the man before him. “No, no of course not.”

“Well then let’s stop playing coy, shall we? You’re a terrible liar,” Simon snarled before pushing Gregory’s arm free. He turned, changing his attentions to Paul on the floor.

The mustached man raised both brows. “We’ve met before. You are?”

Paul breathed through his nose. “Jesus.”

A wicked grin broke on the man’s face. He ran a hand through his hair, chuffing out a laugh. “Well. You certainly bear the resemblance.” He turned back to Gregory. “You hired some fucked up people didn’t you?”

Gregory was silent. Terrified.

“Alright, _Jesus_ ,” Simon continued. “Let’s all be honest, okay? You’re a smart guy. You must have seen something… _curious_ to get shot by this idiot over here, no?”

Kal went stiff. His eyes shot to Paul.

Paul bit the inside of his lip. He’d screamed because he didn’t trust Gregory’s plan. He hadn’t exactly thought about what he’d do next.

And it was naive, but somewhere he hoped Daryl was on his way. That he’d called the cops. Anything.

Paul just needed to continue the conversation as long as possible.

Or create a diversion.

“Yes.”

Simon nodded. “Good, good. At least someone here is being honest with me. What did you see?”

“A manila envelope. I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen you and Gregory handing them off to each other.”

Simon raised his brows and glanced back at Gregory. “Huh. To think you assured me no one else knew about our arrangement.”

“He doesn’t—he knows nothing,” Gregory said.

The mustached man snorted, turning back to Paul. “You know anything else?”

“No, but why don’t you tell me exactly what’s going on here.”

Simon gave one of his piercing smiles and raised his hand, brushing it over his mustache and scruff. “This one’s got balls, Gregory. Maybe you should have recruited him instead of the guy who randomly shoots people.”

When he lowered his hand, his expression dropped along with it. “But what makes you think I’d tell you anything?”

“I just want to understand why my coworker shot at me over a paper envelope.”

Simon nodded. He sighed. “Well you see son, your coworker and boss here are part of a pretty large operation. Now I don’t like having to hurt people, and it seems as if you’ve already taken a beating tonight, but I can’t just share that information with anyone and expect them to keep quiet about it. So you can understand my dilemma here, can’t you? I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t let you just waltz out of here either.”

“You see,” Simon continued, tone becoming more darker, “first it was just me and your good ol’ boss Gregory that had this little arrangement. Made sense for everyone. Made the higher ups satisfied, you know? But then Gregory accidentally ropes in this asshole—doesn’t want to do all the work himself, you see—which usually would call for intervention. But since I’m a kind guy, and my boss is a kind guy, I decided to give Kal here a chance. Unfortunately, he’s turned out to be a liability for me given that he fucking shot you. Now you’re wrapped up in all of this too—crazy isn't it? Before maybe I’d have given you a chance to prove yourself like Kal, but one failure is enough for me.”

Paul inhaled.

“You’re all going to have to take a ride with me tonight,” he finished.

Gregory’s eyes widened. “No, no—this isn’t my fault. It was Kal’s! It was his idea to shoot him! If it were me I’d just have lied, explained it away. Jesus didn't suspect anything until now. Just take them both. Take them to Negan."

Kal furrowed his brows, panicked. “What? No, I'm not going—”

“The guy knows enough, you two. I told you if you fucked up one more time there would be consequences. You’re all coming with me tonight. You can explain this to Negan and he’ll deal with you.”

“You can’t just do this—people will be wondering where we are and the police will come down on you, it’s a bad move—” Gregory continued.

“You don’t think we have procedures set in place for that? I _said_ Negan will deal with you.”

Simon stepped forward. “Alright trigger boy, get your friend up and hold his hands behind his back. Shouldn’t be hard to subdue him, doesn’t look that strong.” He pointed to Gregory. “You’re staying right by me.”

Kal walked over to Paul and bent down, crouching near him.

“I’m sorry man,” he whispered.

Paul glared at him but didn’t say a word. He let Kal heft him upward into a standing position and pull his arms behind his back. It sent a raging pain through his bicep where the bullet had grazed him and he winced. 

“Please, don’t take us there. You have to understand. I can get you more money,” Gregory pleaded.

Simon sighed. Quickly, he reached down to his belt, lifted his shirt, and pulled out a gun. “See this?” he said, waving the thing casually in front of Gregory’s face. “I’m not the only one that isn’t afraid to shoot those who overstep their boundaries. Now get the fuck upstairs.”

He glanced back at Kal. “You two follow. Now.”

As Gregory slowly ascended the stairs, Simon following with gun in hand, Paul knew it was now or never.

Pushing past the pain, he jerked his good arm backward, elbow crushing into Kal’s ribcage. The taller man grunted in surprise and anguish, his body hurling backward against the wall. Paul sensed both Gregory and Simon turn around, but he bounded to the corner where Kal's gun had slid earlier and picked it up, quickly returning to a standing position.

Simon came at him first, attempting to knock the gun from his hands. Paul was quicker, dodging the assault deftly and kneeing the man straight in his groin. The mustached man yelped and raised his hand to shoot at Paul, but he twisted the arm away as he’d practiced in his fighting classes, the bullet going into the wall instead of Paul’s skull. Simon cried out in pain. Paul most likely broke his arm.

Running on pure adrenaline, Paul bounded toward the exit. Gregory was standing at the foot of the stairs, arms raised.

“C’mon Jesus, don’t do this. You know I never wanted this for you—”

Paul raised his right fist and punched Gregory straight in the face.

The man toppled over, hands pressed to over his bleeding nose. Paul hopped over his falling body and ran up the stairs.

He pushed open the cellar door. He ran through the bar, legs moving as fast as he could until he found the front door.

It was locked.

He didn’t have the key. Kal did.

_Shit._

He heard noises coming from the cellar. Simon still had a gun.

_Fucking shit._

Paul raised the gun in his own hands and shot at the lock of the door, blasting it apart.

The next time he pushed, the door swung open with ease.

His shoes crackled against the asphalt as he sprinted across the parking lot. He found his car, but then quickly remembered he didn’t have his keys to that either.

He couldn’t shoot his ignition into life.

"Fuck," Paul breathed. 

Just then, the rumbling of a motor sounded behind him. His shadow appeared as headlights shone against his back.

He turned around.

Daryl.

_He came._

Paul ran toward the bike violently, not caring how insane he must look. As he approached, he could see Daryl’s eyes through his helmet. They were wide with disbelief and horror. The man scrambled from the bike immediately, pulling his helmet off.

“No! No,” Paul cried as he neared closer. “Get back on. Get out of here, get out of here now.”

Daryl eyes danced frantically over Paul's form. He knew the man's mind must be running in a million directions, much like his own. Paul had broken out like a wild animal from the bar, bloody and rabid, gun in hand.

"Paul," he breathed. “What the fuck’s goin’ on, shit what happened to ya?” Daryl eyes dropped to Paul’s hands. “S’that a gun?”

“Fuck,” Paul cursed. He dropped the firearm onto the pavement. He vaguely recognized that he was shaking. “You need to get us out of here.”

“Okay,” Daryl answered. “Get on, c’mon,” he said softly.

Paul climbed onto the bike behind Daryl. He wrapped his hands around his torso. The older man slid the helmet back onto his head and revved up the bike.

Before he knew it they were speeding off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments help me write faster. :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any errors, I'll be editing later.
> 
> I call this the "cameo chapter." Enjoy.

Cold night air whipped through Paul’s flannel shirt as they sped down the dark road, sending a bumpy chill over his clammy skin.

The two men had been riding for a while now—Paul lost track of the exact timing a while back, his mind instead occupied by the throbbing in his skull and the slicing pain plaguing his upper arm. He’d tried to loosen his grip on Daryl’s waist to alleviate some of the discomfort at that angle, but that had just earned a spooked twitch from the biker, who had rasped over the motor “Don’t ya think about falling off, hold on Paul.”

As minutes passed, blurred buildings interspersed with trees transformed into bright lights, noise, and traffic.

They were in the center of town.

Paul scrunched his brows in confusion, unable to figure out why Daryl had driven them this far from home, but then he remembered that they’d never discussed where they were headed. As the bike made a turn at the next light, Paul leaned his head into Daryl’s neck.

“Where are we going?” he asked, voice breaking as he attempted to speak over the hum of the engine. He was unsure if Daryl could hear him through his helmet.

“Hospital,” the biker returned.

Paul glanced down at his own arm. His eyes adjusted to the dark blood that had seeped through the sleeve of his flannel, staining the soft material in wet clumps. Mind finally unclouding, he became aware of the gravity of his current situation.

He’d just escaped from the basement of The Hilltop. The bar where he’d been held hostage.

He couldn't just go home, sleep this off, and start anew tomorrow—he was losing blood. He’d suffered a concussion. He’d been shot.

He needed to be at the hospital.

After what felt like hours, Daryl pulled the motorcycle into the emergency room parking lot. Paul vaguely sensed the vehicle come to a stop. Feeling drowsy, he suddenly felt it difficult to keep his eyelids from sliding shut.

“Hey, Paul, look at me,” came a voice.

Paul opened his eyes, now registering that he was actually standing next to the bike. He didn’t remember getting off. Daryl was staring at him with a nervous intensity, one hand on his lower back and one on his shoulder.

“You with me?” he asked, blue eyes searching his own.

Paul nodded, ignoring the pain in his arm and head. “I’m fine.”

“Y’aint fine,” Daryl grumbled as he turned toward the entrance, guiding Paul with him. They’d parked in one of the closest spots to the door, so walking across a few feet of gravel and onto the sidewalk wasn’t difficult.

Or so he thought.

Halfway to the door, Paul felt himself drifting off again, his eyes heavy and slowly drooping downward. His clammy skin was trembling, everything was blurry…

“Stay with me Paul, we’re almost there,” he heard before feeling his good arm being pulled around the taller man’s neck. Daryl hoisted him upward, carrying most of his weight as he guided them both to the bright lights of the entrance.

 

* * *

 

 

The next thing he knew he was in a hospital bed.

Short, clipped _beeps_ sounded to his right, rhythmic and piercing as his crusted eyes worked themselves open. Glancing downward, he registered that his hands were resting over a blue blanket. A bright red scratch marred the skin down his left forearm, and the knuckles of one hand were riddled with purply-yellow black and blues. A care-fully taped IV emerged from his right wrist and a device was clamped over his pointer finger.

For a moment he panicked, completely shocked as to how he’d woken up in such a state, but it only took a few more seconds for his memories to come flooding back.

_Closing time at the bar._

_The envelope._

_Kal, hands shaking with a gun._

_Pain in his arm, stumbling, blackness._

_Gregory. Simon._

_Running as fast as he could, heart pumping and lungs heaving as he broke free from the door._

_Daryl._

Attention suddenly caught leftward, Paul turned his head and witnessed the sight of Daryl squished on a chair, one bent elbow perched on the armrest to keep his head up as he slept, the other draped lightly over his stomach. His hair was matted with grease and his skin looked pale in the fluorescent light. The sight sent a pang of guilt through Paul: he wanted to wake the man up, tell him to go home and rest—he’d done enough already.

Yet, he couldn’t help but feel warm that Daryl was still here, that the man was willing to stay to make sure he was okay. His heart swelled with another twisted bout of guilt and happiness as he imagined Daryl speeding off on his motorcycle last night to come rescue him from the bar.

“Daryl,” Paul found himself murmuring several moments later, voice gravelly from his slumber.

The older man’s eyes fluttered as he stirred awake. He blinked several times in confusion before his head snapped to Paul. Hopping up from the chair, eyes wide, he strode over to the bed.

Their gazes met and Paul swallowed: Daryl looked completely spent, dark circles lining his puffy sockets, deep blue eyes lined by bloodshot white. Suddenly a wave of immense emotion washed over Paul and he felt the wetness of tears coat his own eyes. He couldn’t even remember the last time cried—

“Paul,” Daryl’s low, soft voice interrupted, “How…how do y’feel?”

Paul swallowed over the lump in his throat, pushing back his emotions. “Been better,” he croaked.

Daryl snorted, lips quirking up slightly in a sad smile. He teetered back and forth on his feet and ran a hand over his face, exhaling. When his eyes met Paul’s again, his lip was quivering.

“You had surgery, to um, to fix up your arm. Checked y’out for a concussion too.”

Paul nodded. His eyes were beginning to sting, but he blinked before any tears could spill over.

“How long have I…?” he asked after clearing his throat.

“Few hours,” Daryl replied softly.

The taller man swallowed before glancing behind them to the closed door. Paul followed his gaze, peering out the small glass pane into the white halls of the hospital.

“The cops are here.”

Paul’s eyes flicked back to Daryl, wide.

“I uh—I called ‘em after they took you in,” the man explained. “You were out by then.”

Brows furrowed, Paul tried to remember exactly when he’d lost consciousness last night, but everything was fuzzy.

“Okay,” Paul replied instead.

Daryl swallowed again, shifting before reaching one hand out to fold over Paul’s. The pad of his palm was rough, hardened by years of work, but somehow also soft and warm. Safe.

“Whatever happens…m’here,” Daryl murmured.

Their eyes met again. In that moment Paul realized the older man was still in the dark on exactly what had transpired last night; for all Daryl knew all of this could have been Paul’s own doing.

“I didn’t—it was Gregory,” Paul began to explain hoarsely, “and Kal, they—”

Daryl’s hand squeezed over Paul’s. “I know,” he said softly. “I know.”

Paul shut his eyes, breathing in deeply. He sounded desperate, even to his own ears. He needed to calm down.

“Hey, s’okay. Just rest,” Daryl murmured. “I’ll tell ‘em y’aint ready.”

The throbbing in his head had stagnated and the stabbing in his arm had lessened to a dull burn. He knew he must be on a bunch of drugs that were keeping him from processing just how much pain he was in exactly, but he was cognizant enough to speak, which was most important. He needed to tell the cops what happened while his mind was still fresh.

Paul shook his head slowly. “No, let them in. I’ll be fine.”

Before Daryl could respond to Paul’s request, however, the doorknob rattled. Daryl was startled, shifting his body quickly to see who was coming in, but he never let go of Paul’s hand.

A tall man with strawberry-blonde hair and greying scruff entered the room. The long white coat told Paul he was a doctor, not a cop. A short woman in scrubs with sandy blonde hair tagged behind him, walking immediately over to Paul’s right side to dabble with the machine attached to the device on his finger. For a moment Paul wondered how they both knew he had awoken, but he figured the monitor must have shown an increased heart rate.

“Good to see you awake, Mr. Rovia,” said the man. “I’m Dr. Carson. Denise here is your nurse.”

Paul glanced over at the woman and she gave an awkward smile before returning to the machine, fingers pressing buttons in patterns he had no way to interpret.

“Sorry to meet you under these circumstances,” Paul managed, brows raised.

Carson smirked as he walked to the right side of the bed. “Sounds like you’re feeling okay,” he said as he glanced over Denise’s shoulder to read the machine.

Paul gave a light snort. “I think I have the meds to thank for that.”

“You’re on a pretty heavy dosage of Percocet,” Denise explained. “If you need more you can tap that little guy there,” she added with a gesture to the cylindrical handset by his side that he hadn’t noticed until now. “You can only reach a certain level though, so even if you push it a thousand times it’s going to max out.”

Dr. Carson walked between them and bent over, pulling up the short sleeve of Paul’s hospital dress to inspect his dressings. “It’s coming along well,” he mused softly. He then drew a small light pointer from his jacket pocket and clicked it on, quickly waving it over Paul’s gaze to test his dilation.

After a sigh, Carson moved backward and met Paul’s gaze. “Well, first things first—you’re doing well.”

Daryl’s hand tightened around his own.

“When your boyfriend brought you in last night, you weren’t in good shape,” the doctor continued. “You’d suffered a moderate concussion and the gunshot wound in your arm, while operable, had caused you to lose a sizable amount of blood. We found a few fragments lodged in there from when the bullet passed through your skin, although the bullet itself was not inside you, which was good. From there we cleaned out the wound and stitched you back up. You’re on a line of antibiotics that you’ll need to take for the next few weeks. After you leave, we’ll keep you on a low dosage of pain meds and slowly wean you off. A preliminary exam of your skull shows no lasting damage from the concussion.”

Paul nodded. “So…I’m fine.”

Dr. Carson smiled. “Yes, you will be. Just take things easy, don’t use your arm much—in fact, Denise will set you up with a sling—and you should be released within the next day or two. We just want to watch you for a bit longer.”

“Thanks,” Daryl said then, voice soft.

Paul’s mind returned to what Carson had said minutes earlier— _your boyfriend._ He wasn’t sure if he was more excited by the fact that the doctor had mistaken them for a couple, or that Daryl hadn’t argued otherwise, instead participating in the conversation as if they actually were together.

“Of course,” the doctor replied, interrupting Paul’s line of thought. “Denise will take things from here, but if you need me don’t hesitate to ask. Get well, Paul.”

Carson nodded at Paul before turning and exiting out the door.

Once the man was gone, Denise smiled softly at them both. “Dr. Carson is one of the best surgeons at the hospital. He’s always busy, so you’re lucky he was on call when you came in. The operation was a cake walk.”

Paul wasn’t sure how he felt about his situation being described as such, but the nurse seemed kind enough despite her awkward sense of humor, so he gave a close-lipped smile in response.

The woman’s lips drifted downward, expression turning serious. “Obviously we don’t know the uh, circumstances that caused your injuries, but—uh, anyway, I just want you to know the police have been asking to speak with you. I told them you hadn’t woken up yet and that I’d let them know when you were ready to speak.”

Paul swallowed. “I’m ready,” he answered honestly. He felt Daryl’s hand tighten again. “I’d rather talk to them now while it’s fresh in my mind.”

Denise nodded. “Alright. If you need me you can push the button on the left-hand bed rest.”

Paul glanced and noticed a red button protruding from the arm of the plastic bed liner.

“I’ll uh, I’ll go get them,” she added, pointing one backward thumb behind her. She awkwardly dropped her arm and gave a half smile.

Then she was gone.

Daryl angled his body toward him. “Do you uh, do you want me to stay for this? I can go if—”

“No, stay,” Paul murmured, meeting his eyes.

Several moments later the door swung back open, revealing two men. The first was a large, rotund man dressed in normal policemen garb, but the other wore a black windbreaker over jeans, a police symbol and the letters “DEA” printed on the front.

“Mr. Rovia, glad to hear you’re doing better,” the windbreaker man spoke.

Paul gave a slight smile, accepting the well-wishes guardedly. _The DEA?_

“Thank you.”

“I’m Agent Morgan Jones with the Drug Enforcement Administration,” he explained as he lifted his badge for Paul’s view. “I’m joined by Officer Jerry Andrews who was first on scene after the 911 call.”

The larger man raised his hand and gave a lopsided smile.

“And this must be Mr. Dixon who called in tonight?” Jones asked.

Daryl cleared his throat. Paul could almost feel the defensive tension emanating from the standing man’s skin. “Yeah, that’s me.”

Agent Jones nodded before returning his gaze to Paul. “Mr. Rovia we’ll need to ask you a series of questions about what happened earlier tonight. We can do it in private if you prefer.”

Daryl tensed, but Paul squeezed his hand immediately in reassurance. “No, Daryl can stay.”

“Alright,” Jones said before glancing back at the cop behind him. The man nodded and flipped out his small notebook, poised to take notes.

“You’ve been an employee at The Hilltop bar for several years, right?” Officer Andrews asked, face warm and easy. Paul didn’t think he’d ever met a cop who seemed so congenial.

Paul cleared his throat. “Yes, I’ve been a bartender since 2011.”

Andrews scribbled onto his pad. “And since that time Gregory Berkeley has been your manager and owner of the bar?”

“That’s correct.”

“What about Kal Chen?” Agent Jones asked.

Paul swallowed as memories from last night flashed in his mind. “Uh, no em, Kal started about two years go—early 2015, I think.”

The officer and agent exchanged a look. “Prior to tonight, have you ever noticed anything strange about either of their behaviors, especially in regard to one another?” Jones asked.

Paul exhaled as he felt Daryl’s hand squeeze against his own. “Yes, I have.”

Agent Jones raised his brows. “How so?”

“Gregory had always been…difficult, but I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary until several months ago. Kal I…I never thought he’d…” Paul trailed off.

Jones nodded. “Can you explain what seemed out of the ordinary?”

“I saw him meeting with a man. They exchanged large envelopes. At first I thought it was a personal matter, so I tried to brush it off, but something didn’t feel right.”

“Can you describe this man?” Jones pressed.

“Tall, about six three maybe. Greying hair, goatee.” Paul closed his eyes, swallowing. “His name is Simon. He was there tonight.”

Both men tensed, Jones looking over at the officer.

Paul exhaled again, suddenly overwhelmed. “Listen, I—I’m a bit confused. I mean you’re a DEA agent, and you say you were on the scene and—can someone just tell me what’s going on?”

Agent Jones had a somber look. “Mr. Rovia, we suspect your boss and coworker are involved in one of the largest drug rings in the southeast.”

Paul inhaled. Simon’s words from last night threaded through his mind. A large operation he’d called it. “Christ,” he said, closing his eyes.

“What kinda drugs?” Daryl rasped.

“Meth. Dangerous dudes,” Officer Andrews chimed in, same easygoing expression on his face.

Jones blinked slowly, exhaling. “They manufacture and distribute methamphetamine. The ring has been one of the DEA’s top targets for about two years now. We’ve gotten leads, even turned a few low-level dealers as informants, but even they haven’t had access to the head of the ring—a man who goes by the name Negan.”

Paul shook his head, attempting to comprehend the information. “I’ve…Simon said his name last night.”

Jones raised his brows. “You’re sure about this?”

“Yes. Simon he—he was trying to get us to go with him. Gregory blamed it all on Kal, said that Simon should take me and him to Negan, not himself.”

The agent sighed, rubbing a hand over a face. A few moments later he began speaking again.

“About six months ago one of our sources told us his boss, a man who allegedly has access to Negan, had hired another recruit to deal in new territory. This man is the Simon you met, and based on tonight I believe his recruit was Gregory,” Jones said.

Paul exhaled.

“A month after, the informant told us he’d heard the new recruit was in a bit of hot water,” Jones continued. “Rumor had it he’d been cutting the meth and taking a profit for himself. According to our source, Simon was taking extra measures to make sure that didn’t happen again. Can you tell us when you first saw him at the bar?”

Paul swallowed. “About five months ago. Do you…do you think him coming to the bar was meant as some kind of intimidation tactic?”

Jones raised a brow, shrugging. “It’s certainly possible, but deals go down in public of locations more than you think.”

“And Kal he…”

“Probably a hire of Gregory’s,” the cop answered. “These things work like a pyramid, y’know? We’d been busting the bottom tiers, but no one’s gotten us this close to the top until now.”

Jones gave him a warning look, then returned to Paul, calm. “Can you bring us through what happened tonight, Mr. Rovia?”

Paul swallowed. “Sure.”

He explained every moment in as much detail as he could, from hanging in the back room to running out the front door, bloody and wild. Agent Jones asked numerous questions, Officer Andrews took ample notes.

“I’m very sorry this happened to you,” Jones said once Paul finished. “But you got through it.”

Paul felt a lump grow in his throat.

After a moment, the agent looked over at the officer and gave a quick nod, then returned his sights to Paul. “Well I think that’s all we need to proceed.”

“So you tellin’ me he witnessed a deal gone wrong and the direct report to the head honcho knows who he is,” Daryl cut in, voice tense. “He got damn shot, he could’ve…and that’s just it? What about him? Y’gonna keep someone on him? What if they come back—”

Jones lifted a hand in a calming manner. “Mr. Dixon, I assure you the proper measures will be taken. When Officer Andrews arrived on scene The Hilltop was empty, but we have men tracking down Mr. Chen and Mr. Berkeley as we speak. I’m confident we’ll have arrests within the hour.”

Paul exhaled a shaky breath, exhaling. “What about Simon?”

“The DEA and FBI are on him. We expect him to lead us to Negan.”

“Listen,” Jones continued, making an effort to make eye contact with both Daryl and Jesus, “I will order Officer Andrews and a protective detail to stay here while you recover, as well as an officer posted at your home once you leave until we break the ring. Once we have Negan, the rest will follow. ”

Paul squeezed Daryl’s hand again. “Thank you,” he said to both the agent and officer.

The two men said their farewells before heading toward the door.

“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” Andrews grinned while giving a peace sign.

 

* * *

 

The next day Tara arrived, teary eyes paired with a sad smile as she leaned down to the bed to hug her best friend. Rosita and the group joined not long after with a handful of baked goods and three balloons that spelled out “Get Well Soon.”

Later, Officer Andrews—Jerry, they learned he preferred—let them know both Berkeley and Chen had been arrested.

The following day, Jerry told them the FBI had found Simon and they and the DEA were circling Negan’s base, waiting for the right moment to strike. Paul thought that the last bit was supposed to be confidential, but the cop seemed lax on his sharing policies.

By midweek, he was released from the hospital. Denise explained the antibiotic and pain killer regimen he’d be on for the next few weeks. At noon he was in a sling and being wheeled out of the hospital by Daryl. Tara drove him home given that riding on Daryl’s motorcycle with a sling would be horrible idea, but the biker followed closely behind. When they arrived back at his apartment, Jerry was already there, stationed in his car near the entrance to keep watch until the DEA’s raid was finalized.

During the ride up in the elevator with Tara and Daryl, it occurred to Paul how bizarre this situation really was—in no world would he have expected to be here four days ago, the two people he was closest with escorting him back to his home from the hospital after being shot and held hostage at work by his coworkers, who were also members of a state-wide drug ring.

The ridiculousness of the situation was almost laughable really, something you only saw in gritty dramas or raunchy cop comedies. Yet humor couldn’t come to him, not now when he could still feel pain searing in his arm, the memories from that night in the basement playing over in his mind.

 

* * *

 

After lunch, Tara left. While Daryl was doing the dishes, Paul padded into his bedroom and climbed into bed, sitting up against his pillows and pulling the comforter over his torso with his good hand. He sat there in silence, the room set in a soft shade given that he didn’t turn on any lights but the blinds of his window were still open.

He feels his cellphone buzz in his pocket, which he forgot he’d placed in there after leaving the hospital. He hadn’t checked any of his messages since before that night—Daryl had contacted his friends on his own cell instead—so he pulled out the iPhone with his good hand and unlocked the screen.

Sasha had texted him a get well soon message. He realized he had a dozen more similar from his friends. As he went through each one and responded with cordial thank you’s, he reached Daryl’s name.

With a deep breath, Paul tapped open the conversation.

> **Daryl 6:38 PM**  
>  Does Italian sound good?
> 
> **Daryl 6:45 PM**  
>  We can go somewhere else. Wherever you want
> 
> **Daryl 7:15 PM**  
>  You’re closing early tonight right?
> 
> **Daryl 7:45 PM**  
>  Guess it’s a late one. We can still go out if you want, or I can order in for you
> 
> **Daryl 8:00 PM**  
>  Did I say something wrong?
> 
> **Daryl 8:15 PM**  
>  Are you okay?
> 
> _Two missed calls._
> 
> **Daryl 8:20 PM**  
>  Paul?

He remembered Gregory’s taunting, holding his phone in hand, telling him how Daryl had been texting him.

_This Daryl character has been texting you quite a bit. I’m assuming he’s worried about you._

At that moment another scene passed through his skull, and it was as if he was back in the basement again, cold bricks pressing hard against his spine. He remembers Kal’s sweaty hands pulling him up from the wall, he remembers picking up the gun, disarming Simon, punching Gregory in the face. He remembers running so fast his muscles burned as they tried to keep up, he remembered shooting down the door only to be hit with a wave of nausea when he realized he didn't have his car keys.

Paul dropped his phone into his lap and raised his hand to his face, rubbing his eyes as he exhaled a deep, shaky breath.

All the emotion from the past few days—terror, adrenaline, pain, confusion, anxiety—hit him all at once. He’d been trying so hard to keep it all in, to stay strong, but now that he was home his cover was slipping from its hold. He let another shaky breath from his lips before he felt wetness on the fingers covering his eyes. Soon enough the tears were spilling down his face.

“Paul?”

Paul dropped his hands, startled, and looked up to the doorway. Daryl was standing there silently, wavy brown tendrils framing his furrowed brows. At the realization that the other man was crying, Daryl’s expression turned soft.

Without a word, the taller man walked over and climbed onto the bed. Daryl settled onto his knees next to Paul, raising one hand to brush the other man’s hair behind his ear.

“I’m sorry,” Paul breathed, lifting his own arm to wipe away some of the tears. “I’m fine, I’m just…”

 _Just what? Tired? In pain?_   While both were true, he knew neither excuse was the cause for his tears.

Daryl drifted his palm to rest against Paul’s cheek, thumb wiping away another stray tear. His blue eyes were earnest and clear.

“You can tell me anythin,’” he murmured.

Paul’s eyes didn’t leave Daryl’s as more tears threatened to spill over. The lump grew in his throat and his lips felt weak, shaky.

He couldn’t pretend anymore.

“I…I don’t know,” came the words from his own lips as he let the tears spill freely. “I just feel so much.”

He was fully crying now, deep sobs wracking his small frame. Seconds later he felt warm arms surrounding him and Daryl placing a chaste kiss against where his thumb had just rested. Paul nuzzled his face into Daryl’s shoulder as he cried, tears soaking into the other man’s shirt.

“I’m here,” Daryl whispered. “You’re not alone.”

Just then, he remembered Daryl driving up on his bike in the parking lot, bright headlights signaling a means for his own escape. It’d only been then that Paul had felt relief. Hope.

After Paul’s breathing slowed and tears came to a stop, Daryl slid up the bed and climbed underneath the covers. He pulled one pillow out from behind Paul’s back and gently helped guide him down into a resting position.

Paul turned on his side so that he wasn’t putting pressure on his bad arm. Moments later he felt Daryl’s warmth wrapping around him from behind.

As he drifted off to sleep, he felt safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any character without a last name received the last name of their actor's counterpart, FYI. 
> 
> Comments are appreciated. :)


	19. Chapter 19

It was dark when Paul opened his eyes.

An uncomfortable combination of stiffness and pain in his injured arm had woken him from an otherwise undisturbed slumber. After a few silent moments of waiting for his vision to adjust to the shadows of his bedroom, he managed to push himself up into a seated position with his good arm, back half-cushioned against his two plush pillows.

Looking down, Paul’s eyes settled on the man lying beside him. During the night Daryl had shifted backward a bit, but he was still huddled in his direction, face smushed into the edge of Paul’s pillow and body curved toward him like a protective blanket. Dark strands of wavy hair had fallen soft and loose over his cheek that wasn’t obscured by the pillow, and the gentle moonlight sifting through the blinds highlighted them in a shiny glow of cool blues. This close Paul could see his eyelashes flutter against his skin as he dreamt and hear each of his quiet exhales as his chest rose and fell.

Paul’s thoughts were interrupted by another uncomfortable wave of throbbing in his wounded arm. He suspected enough time had lapsed for him to take his next dose of medication; the painkillers were definitely beginning to wear off from when he had taken them this morning. Turning toward his bedside table, he attempted to reach over to his phone and check the time, but the action was too quick—a sharp pain sliced near his wound and he couldn’t help but hiss in reaction.

The noise and movement must have woken Daryl because a moment later the man inhaled and shot up, tired eyes laced with alarm. If he hadn’t just been kidnapped and shot a few days back, Paul would have chuckled at the discord of Daryl’s frenzied concern paired with how innocent his ruffled, soft hair made him look.

“Paul—y’alright?” Daryl asked, expression tense even though his voice was heavy with sleep.

“I’m okay,” Paul whispered, hoping to pacify Daryl’s panic. “You can sleep, don’t worry.”

The other man gave a sleepy hum. “Don’t look fine. You need water or somethin’?”

“I—”  

Paul paused before continuing. He was going to politely decline and tell Daryl to go back to sleep again, but on second thought his mouth felt quite cottony.

“Maybe, yeah, ” he finished instead. “I uh, I think I need more pain meds.”

Daryl pushed back his side of the comforter immediately, moving to exit from the other side of the bed.

“Oh Daryl, you don’t have to—” Paul attempted to call, but the man was already off the bed, padding out of the room and into the kitchen. He hadn’t meant for Daryl to have to get up himself, especially so quickly.

He returned a few moments later, a clear glass of water in one hand and the orange prescription bottle in the other. He was still wearing his clothes from earlier—a quarter-sleeved plain sweater and loose jeans—Paul noticed, and they were rumpled from several hours of sleep. That plus his rustled hair and obviously I-just-woke-up-several-moments-ago sleep-laden expression had Paul gently smiling as he approached.

“Thank you,” Paul murmured as Daryl handed him the two items and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Thought you could only take three?” Daryl asked.

“Up to four each day for the first week,” Paul corrected as he popped open the lid and shimmied out one large pill. He lifted it into his mouth and swallowed it with a gulp of water. After he felt the pill slide down his throat, he continued to drink until the glass was empty.

As he moved to place the cup and bottle on his bedside table, Daryl made a soft grunt of protest and reached forward, gently taking them from his hands. “I got it,” he mumbled before leaning over and placing the items onto the surface.

Paul smiled gently again. “Thank you.”

Daryl nodded shyly. For a few moments neither of them spoke.

“How long were we sleeping?” Paul asked then, attempting to fill the awkward quiet. He knew the elephant in the room was approaching, but his nerves were inhibiting him from making the first move to acknowledge it.

“D’unno,” Daryl shrugged. “At least seven hours I’d guess…” he trailed off as he reached back over to the table to grab Paul’s phone. He tapped the device and the room lit up in a white glow.

“Nine-thirty,” he said with a squint.

Paul sighed. They’d mostly likely fallen asleep close to one o’clock, so that meant they’d been asleep for at least eight hours. Usually he tried to avoid sleeping at odd times, but somehow his slumber just now was the most satisfying he’d experienced in a really, really long time, especially given that he was recovering from a gunshot wound. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to fall back asleep now even though it was nearing the normal time for an individual to get to bed in the first place.

“How do you feel?” Daryl asked next, gruff voice unusually soft.

“My arm is still sore and where they stitched me up throbs with pain sometimes,” Paul answered honestly. “But otherwise, not too bad,” he finished with a slight smirk.

Daryl nodded, and another awkward silence passed between them.

“If you want to talk about what happened that night, m’here.”

There it was, the elephant had arrived.

Paul inhaled, eyes meeting Daryl’s.

“An’ if ya don’t…I’m here too.”

Swallowing, Paul flicked his eyes downward. Opening up about his emotions had never been easy for him, but this was Daryl—the man he’d come to know as one of his closest friends, the man he'd fallen in love with, the man who had stayed by his side each night that he was in the hospital. Paul thought back to the morning he'd woken up in Daryl’s arms and wanted to confess that he loved him. He remembered how relieved he’d been to see Daryl pull up on his bike like some goddamn knight in shining armor at the bar. He thought of last night, his face pressed into the warmth of Daryl’s neck as he cried for the first time in what felt like years.

Paul exhaled.

“I just can’t believe it actually happened,” he whispered.

Daryl neared closer, reaching one hand out to rest over the smaller man’s and intertwine their fingers.

“I keep playing it over in my head,” he continued, voice slightly louder, “and it’s almost like I’m watching someone else act it all out. But even though my mind is so disconnected from it all, my body can still feel everything—I can still feel my heart pounding as I tried to break out of the door.”

Daryl softly ran his thumb over Paul’s hand, caressing his smooth skin. “S’alright, it’s over now,” he murmured.

“I know,” Paul sighed. “It’s dumb.”

“No, it ain’t,” Daryl cut in, a raw, vulnerable edge replacing the previous calm softness of his voice. “If those cops don't’ get ‘em, I will. I promise you they ain’t ever gonna hurt you again.”

“Daryl—”

“I mean it,” Daryl said, lips quivering slightly. “I won’t lose you.”

Paul felt a lump grow in his throat. He squeezed Daryl’s hand.

“You haven’t,” he whispered.

The older man looked down and their interlocked hands and swallowed.

“When you didn’t text me,” Daryl continued,  “I thought you were pissed or somethin,’ that I fucked up or…that you’d changed your mind ‘bout that night.”

Paul’s lips frowned on their own accord. The lump in his throat grew larger and he felt his eyes begin to sting.

“Then when you weren’t respondin’ at all I got this feelin’…I knew somethin’ wasn’t right. Maybe you were just mad but I couldn’t sit there anymore. I’d rather have you angry with me for not leavin’ you alone than—” Daryl’s voice broke and he exhaled a shaky breath. He pulled his hand from Paul’s and ran both over his own face before dropping them in his lap. “—Than somethin’ bad happen to you and I wasn’t there.”

“Daryl,” Paul murmured.

“Thought maybe you got in a car accident or somethin’…didn’t know where to go but head toward the bar. Then I saw you runnin…”

Daryl stopped speaking, lips fully trembling now. He opened his mouth to speak again, but nothing came out but a broken gasp. Only several seconds passed before his emotions took hold, face contorting in pain as he began to cry.

“Oh Daryl,” Paul breathed, ignoring the pain in his arm as he leaned forward and pulled the other man into a hug. He rested his forehead against Daryl’s neck as he had last night and ran the hand of his good arm over his back.

“M’sorry,” Daryl whimpered as his chest heaved in small breaths. “M’so sorry.”

Paul pulled back to meet the man face-to-face. He could feel the tears in his own eyes begin to well forward, and he swallowed over the lump in his throat to keep them at bay. Moving his hand from Daryl’s back, he lifted it to brush Daryl’s dark bangs from his eyes, raking it back over his forehead.

“You have _nothing_ to be sorry for,” Paul said, voice shaky but insistent.

“If I would’ve been there, maybe I could’ve done somethin.”

“No, Daryl. There’s no way you could have known.”

“But I _did_ , Paul. I knew somethin’ wasn’t right with Gregory, even thought it could be drug related. I’d been through the same damn thing before with my own brother, but even then I still couldn’t…I couldn’t do anythin—I fucked up and you could’ve died.”

Daryl squeezed his eyes shut, two more tears spilling down silently.

“Hey, look at me,” Paul whispered.

The older man blinked open his reddened eyes to meet Paul’s own.

“Daryl, when you got there it was the first time that I felt safe all night,” he said. “I didn’t have the keys to my car and if you hadn’t taken me away, I don’t know what would’ve happened to me.”

The older man swallowed, sad eyes never leaving Paul’s.

“I’d hoped you’d come, when I was in the basement,” Paul continued, voice now barely over a whisper. “And you did. You didn’t fuck up—you saved me.”

Daryl shook his head, eyes dropping to the comforter.

"You did," Paul repeated.

“Saved yourself,” Daryl mumbled. “You got out of there on your own.”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t have made it any further without you.”

Their eyes met again and Paul knew it was the right time. He didn’t care about how afraid he was or how Daryl would answer.

Paul took a deep breath.

“Maybe this was always meant to happen,” he whispered, voice unsteady. “No matter what I was bound to find out about Gregory and get involved somehow. I would have never let it go, not with knowing it could put other people at risk. And maybe—maybe there’s some other universe where we never met and I wouldn’t be here right now because of it. I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter because _I'm here_ , safe with you. And the truth is, even if you hadn’t shown up that night, leaving me to the same fate as the universe where we’d never met, I’d still choose to be in this one. Every time. Because knowing you has made me so happy.”

The well of emotion Paul had been trying to keep inside finally cracked, the first tear spilling over and sliding down his cheek.

“Daryl, I love you so much,” he murmured, trying to hold back from fully crying. "I never want you to feel like you’ve fucked up my life because it’s the exact opposite. I’m so in love with you.”

With a shaky exhale he alowed more tears fall and he raised the back of his good hand to wipe at his cheeks. Daryl stared at him incredulously, lips parted.

Paul met his eyes, but the emotion in them was so overwhelming he couldn't help but drop his own down to the comforter. His heart thumped with both a surge of adrenaline from his confession and a frenzied anticipation of Daryl's response. His eyes traced the lined pattern of his bedspread, waiting for Daryl to say something—anything—but nothing came.

Then he felt a soft brush of fingers over his bearded chin, gently tilting his head upward. Their gazes met, a silent moment passing between them, and then Daryl was rushing forward to capture Paul’s lips with his own.

Paul’s heart leaped as Daryl pressed into him, swells of tingling warmth running down his spine and blooming into his chest.

After several moments the taller man broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against Paul’s. Their breaths mingled as they sat against each other in silence.

Paul was acutely aware that they were still both crying—he could see the shine on Daryl's cheeks and feel the drying wetness on his own.

“I love you too,” came Daryl’s voice, low and broken.

Paul swallowed his tears and closed the space between them again. He lifted his hand to the nape of the taller man’s neck, pulling him down and closer, and angled his head to deepen the kiss. The only noise in the room was the soft press of their lips as they parted and molded gently into each other.

Soon enough Paul was reclining back against his pillows, Daryl leaning over him as they kissed. Without thinking, the smaller man raised both arms to encircle the Daryl's waist, sending a stitch of pain in his bicep. He broke the kiss involuntarily as he winced.

"Did I—“ Daryl said.

"No, it wasn't you. I just, I think I have to move.”

Daryl sat back and Paul shifted to the side so that he was in the center of the bed, leaving the space where he’d just been lying free.

"Come here," Paul breathed, patting the bed with his good hand and then rucking back the covers.

Daryl obliged, moving and slipping beneath the comforter. He leaned up on one bent arm and hovered over Paul from the side, dark bangs falling into his eyes, and then reconnected their lips.

Soft, chaste kisses turned open-mouthed and wet. It wasn’t long before Paul felt himself harden, beyond aroused by the feeling of being surrounded and touched by Daryl. He hadn’t thought about the fact that he’d still been wearing his normal clothes until his jeans felt too uncomfortable and tight against his groin. 

As Daryl kissed down his neck, Paul gasped out a soft moan. The noise seemed to encourage the older man, who continued with added fervor, sucking and kissing at his pulse point until Paul was fully hard against his zipper.

He wanted to lift his hips to meet Daryl’s, but he knew the exertion would put too much pressure on his already-pained arm. Instead, he reached his good arm up to drift down Daryl’s frame until he settled on his small of his back. He tugged at the edge of his sweater and pulled it forward.

Daryl got the hint, sitting up immediately and stripping the item. After tossing it to the side he dove back down and reconnected their lips. Paul ran his hand over his bare back, feeling the marred patches of skin he remembered from the first night they were together that he could only guess were scars. Daryl didn’t tense or flinch, he only kissed Paul harder and took the hand that wasn’t holding him up and ran it down Paul’s chest. He rested it tentatively at the edge of his jeans.

Their lips parted for air and Daryl pulled back, searching his partner’s eyes.

“Help me take them off,” Paul whispered.

That was all the encouragement Daryl needed. He unzipped Paul’s fly and then hunched back onto his knees to pull them down and over his hips. After a few awkward squirms, they both managed to remove the smaller man’s jeans, leaving him in his t-shirt and briefs. Paul’s erection was unmistakeable through the thin cotton. Daryl noticed.

Daryl glanced at Paul shyly before placing one hand over his clothed length, gently rubbing.

Shocks of pleasure surged up Paul’s spine at the contact, even as feather-light as it was, and he couldn’t help but arch his neck back and gasp into the dark air. Daryl growled low in his throat and sped up his ministrations, rubbing over his length two times before moving to push the briefs completely from his hips.  
Paul attempted to reach down Daryl’s torso and find the man’s own cock, but he was gently pushed away. “Don’t, this s’for you,” Daryl breathed. “Dont want’ya to hurt yourself.”

“I want you to feel good too.”

Daryl huffed. “Trust me, I do.”

Then Daryl’s hand wrapped around him, and any protests he had in mind completely dissipated.

Paul moaned as the other man gently pumped over his cock. Even though he was obviously unpracticed in this department, Daryl’s inexperience was endearing and Paul was incredibly turned on—it didn't even occur to him that this was only a handjob. He lifted his good hand and ran his fingertips over the muscles of Daryl’s arm.

Daryl leaned down and pressed their lips together. After, he placed soft kisses over his eyelids, his forehead, and his cheeks before returning to his mouth.

As their tongues met, the older man’s grew more confident and he quickened his speed over Paul’s length. It wasn’t long before the Paul was gasping into Daryl’s mouth and clutching to arm.

“Don’t stop,” Paul pleaded, eyes fluttering shut as he felt his orgasm impending. “Fuck.”

Daryl dropped his head to Paul’s shoulder, forehead pressed into his long hair. He pumped his arm even faster. The younger man whined in his throat and arched his back. “I’m close,” he gasped.

Suddenly Daryl removed himself from Paul’s shoulder and slinked down the smaller man’s body. Before he could process what was happening, Paul felt the other man's lips kiss hotly over the leaking tip of his cock as he continued jerking him off. The action nearly burned holes in the back of Paul’s eyelids and he frantically grabbed for his lover’s head, hand tangling in the man’s dark locks.

“Oh my god—Daryl, shit,” he whimpered. Daryl parted his lips, letting Paul’s cock slip ever-so-slightly into his mouth and that was it—he was coming hard and moaning loud. Daryl removed his mouth when he realized what was happening, letting Paul finish in Daryl’s hand, but the first spurt spilled over his lips, which Daryl licked clean with a vague cringe.

After, the older man lay down beside him, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Paul was too dazed to even comprehend a response, his eyes still seeing stars as he stared dumfounded into the dark shadows of his ceiling.

“Fuck,” he managed a few minutes later.

The larger man moved to his side to face him. “Was it good?” he asked softly.

Paul turned his head. “Good is an understatement. I was not expecting that last part.”

One side of Daryl’s lips quirked slightly. “Neither was I if we’re bein’ honest.”

The younger man smiled and leaned down to press a chaste kiss against Daryl’s bare shoulder. “You want me to return the favor?”

“Next time. Told ya it was for you.”

“Plus,” he continued a few beats later, “Want you to get more rest. Go back to sleep.”

Earlier he hadn’t thought he'd be to fall back asleep, but after that orgasm anything was possible really. His eyelids already felt heavy.

“Okay. Next time. Promise,” Paul answered lazily as he closed his eyes.

Daryl huddled toward him, pulled him close, and placeda soft kiss over his forehead. Paul leaned into his warmth, careful not to disturb his wounded arm resting over his side, and snuggled against him.

“Love you,” Daryl whispered, voice low and vulnerable, before placing another kiss over his temple.

Paul kissed his lover’s shoulder again before dozing off.

 

* * *

 

The next week passed by quickly.

Paul’s arm slightly improved as the initial pain from the wound and surgery tapered off. While he spent most of his time in his sling, he found that gentle movements didn’t hurt any longer as long as he didn’t over exert himself. Considering how serious his wound could have been, he felt extremely grateful that this was the extent of his recovery.

Despite his improvement and the fact that he was perfectly capable of getting by each day on his own, Daryl had cut his hours at the shop to stay home and watch over Paul. He refused to let him cook or clean or do pretty much anything that required any sort of strenuous use of his arms. While Paul felt guilty the man was dedicating his time to such menial tasks (one night he even cut Paul’s dinner for him so he couldn't have to), admittedly he enjoyed the extra attention. Being taken care of so sweetly made him feel ever more in love.

Each night since they’d confessed their feelings they spent kissing and exploring each other's bodies in bed. Even during the day as they goofed off and watched TV on the couch—they’d returned it to its original state now that Daryl was staying in Paul’s bedroom—they’d always end up cuddled against each other, lazily tracing patterns against each other’s skin or playing with the other’s hair. 

On Sunday, Agent Jones and Jerry delivered the news: Gregory and Kal had been found at the drug ring’s headquarters. Both were arrested in some sort of shootout that the agent was not at liberty to explain in full detail. In the confusion, there had been some kind of struggle with the leader—Negan—and he was killed by an FBI agent. While their prime target was no longer able to pay for his crimes, the DEA and FBI found enough to prosecute the remaining players, including Simon.

That night, after Daryl had pressed into him and fucked him sweetly and slowly like it was their first and last time, Paul fell asleep in his arms, his mind and body at complete ease. He knew his role in this wasn’t over quite yet—he guessed he’d have to testify in court or at least provide some sort of information to the FBI in order to fully prosecute Gregory and Kal— but for the first time since the incident he felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders knowing the men who'd hurt him were safely behind bars. 

As he slept, he dreamt that he was sitting at one of the picnic tables in the town square, sun shining down and warming his skin. Daryl sat next to him and was holding his hand. Tara and his  friends were there too, laughing over something ridiculous Eugene had said as they picked on their lunches. 

It was a simple dream really, something trite and overdone that could have been taken out of the ending of a feel-good comedy, but the knowledge that it could  _really_  happen, that he could actually be happy and free and himself with the ones he loved was enough to make it feel like the the grandest fantasy.

Maybe he’d wake up tomorrow and it’d all be real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter! Hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been reading and commenting along the way. You have no idea how much it means to me.


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